


Arrangements

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: Endpoint [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Angst, Cutting, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Infantilism, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pre-Reichenbach, Self-Harm, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 52,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was so tired of being Sherlock Holmes. All the time. It was exhausting. And not particularly pleasant.</p>
<p>This occurs simultaneously with, in, and around ENDPOINT: His Innocence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ariane DeVere, aka Callie Sullivan, for the amazing transcripts.

John Watson wondered how many times he had apologised for Sherlock Holmes, consulting dickhead. The word “Sorry!” had begun springing from his lips—John thought about it—the day after they had met. And hadn’t stopped since.  
  
*  
  
“Sorry!” to the driver of the car that Sherlock had hurdled going after the cab outside of Angelo’s.  
  
*  
  
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured to the slightly confused man who had come seeking the detective’s help with his wife, who was apparently spending a great deal of time at her office (although John secretly agreed that it was _boring_ ).  
  
*  
  
“So sorry. He’s having a bad day,” he explained to the two well-dressed gentlemen from the jewellery shop who had just been told to “bugger off” in response to their request for help with a mysteriously dwindling stock.  
  
*  
  
“Let’s go see if Mrs Hudson can give us a hand, yeah?” He led the horrified, weeping young woman down and into his landlady’s flat, calling out, “Mrs H? Sorry, but can you give me a hand?”  
  
“Oh, what’s he done now?” she asked, fussing over the girl.  
  
“Sorry,” John said again, weakly.  
  
*  
  
 _Geez, Sherlock, did it occur to you that some income might be a good idea?_ He seethed as the business man who had offered “any sum of money you care to mention” if he retrieved some files stormed out, but he called out after him, “Sorry! He’s very particular.”  
  
*  
  
At least fifty times to Sarah, for when 1) he couldn’t come in to work because he was running after Sherlock; 2) he had come in and then regretted it because he had been interrupted by ten texts from Sherlock; 3) Sherlock had come in and bodily hauled John out of the surgery (that apology had also been directed at the patient he had been examining, a completely mortified middle-aged man with piles); and 4) of course for taking her on a date that somehow got them both kidnapped and nearly killed.  
  
*  
  
John began to realize that he tossed out “sorries” the way the tourists used to toss out grain to the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. And that the result was sometimes remarkably similar—a lot of shit and a huge cleaning bill. He wondered, sometimes, how Sherlock had managed to not get strangled, shot, or even tripped before he had come along.  
  
“How did you manage to not get strangled, shot, or—oh, yeah, just like that—tripped before I came along?” he asked earnestly.  
  
“What are you—you like that, hmm?—talking about?”  
  
“You are the most insufferably rude—oh shit Sherlock—man I’ve ever met.”  
  
“I’m not rude. I’m—you smell so delicious—honest.”  
  
“You’re horribly—I’m not going to last long if you keep that up—rude.”  
  
“It’s much more efficient—that was my intention—than being polite.”  
  
“Efficien—oh god that’s amazing.”  
  
…  
  
“Yeah, just like that. Touch… there... oh that’s good”  
  
…  
  
“Your mouth o my god I can’t breathe”  
  
…  
  
“I can’t feel my legs”  
  
…  
  
“Oh god I’m going to—”  
  
…  
  
Sherlock smiled that lovely, wicked smile that drove John absolutely mad as he wiped the corner of his mouth delicately with his thumb. He presumed that their conversation had concluded.  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was lying on the loading dock when John finally caught up with him. The suspect—a burly, dark man over six foot four and an alarming 25 stone—was lying next to him, unconscious.  
  
“You all right?” John inquired politely, eyeing the unconscious man warily.  
  
Sherlock rolled over onto his back and tipped his head over the edge of the dock, peering at John upside-down. John took a step over and kissed him.  
  
“You know, you could call 999 instead of texting me when you’re really in trouble,” the doctor commented.  
  
“No, you're better than 999,” Sherlock grumbled. And then he winced.  
  
John immediately shifted into doctor mode. “What happened? Can you get up?”  
  
“Probably not,” Sherlock admitted, overtly chagrined.  
  
“What did he do to you?” John sighed, glancing around for the steps leading up to the dock. He spotted them and jogged up.  
  
Sherlock raised his head. “My leg.”  
  
“You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” John commented crisply. He knelt and examined the unconscious man first. “Right temple?” he inquired, noting the wound. “You knocked him out with your left hand?”  
  
“He wouldn’t go down. I was getting bored.”  
  
“He’ll probably be waking up soon, but I don’t think we’ll have to worry about him.” A siren wailed in the distance. “Ah. There they are.” John nodded, affirming his own statement.  
  
“You called 999,” Sherlock noted.  
  
“Well, yes. Considering I knew that you were stalking a man well over twice your weight, with a nasty temper, I was anticipating something like this.”  
  
“Not stalking,” the detective grumbled.  
  
“You’re not the police and you didn’t know for sure if he was the right man, so yes, it was stalking, and if he remembers anything of the last hour (which is doubtful), he’ll have every right to prosecute.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “Prosecute me for just happening to be in the same place at the same time—which was _clearly_ a coincidence—while he actually has the jewellery that he stole in his pocket?”  
  
“Does he?” John’s eyes opened wider and he glanced back at the supine man.  
  
“Check his left trouser pocket. Wait. Do you have gloves?”  
  
“Yeah. Of course.” John pulled latex gloves from his jacket pocket and put them on, then deftly slid a hand into the indicated pocket. “Oh, yeah, he does,” he commented, pulling out and then sliding back in a good handful of diamond rings.  
  
A police car pulled up to the loading dock, followed by another and an ambulance. John jumped down to discuss the situation with the law enforcement officers whilst encouraging the emergency responders to strap the suspect firmly to a gurney.  
  
DI Lawson strode up. “Oh, shit,” John commented beneath his breath.  
  
“Don’t worry. I’ve been good, John. He can’t possibly arrest me this time.”  
  
And surprisingly, the detective was correct. He explained—unusually succinctly—that he had just happened to be in the jewellery shop when the thug _(Do they still use that word?_ John wondered. _Why was he in a jewellery shop? Are the rumours about him and the doctor true and there’s going to be a happy announcement?_ Lawson wondered.) had committed a bold daytime robbery, smashing a display case, sweeping up a handful of diamond rings, and dashing out before any of the clerks had had the presence of mind to respond. Sherlock had gone after him strictly out of a sense of civic duty.  
  
“And you knocked him unconscious out of the same sense of duty?” the DI inquired, not quite as abruptly as he usually did.  
  
“Self-defence,” the detective, who was still sitting on the loading dock, explained.  
  
“Oh, really? What did he do to you?”  
  
“What _did_ he do to you, Sherlock?” John echoed in a completely different tone of voice. He fell to his knees next to his mate.  
  
“I told you. It’s my leg.” He waved a hand vaguely. “There’s a tyre lever somewhere over there,” he explained a bit wearily. “Don’t touch it—fingerprints.”  
  
“He hit you with a tyre lever?” John attempted to clarify, horror in his voice. “Where?”  
  
“Right here on the loading dock. Do pay attention,” the dark-haired man replied sarcastically. And then he added, rapidly and in a lower voice, “My right thigh. I can’t seem to move that leg very much.”  
  
“Do you think anything’s broken?” his doctor responded, bending his head down and speaking softly; gently.  
  
“No. It doesn’t even exactly hurt, but my leg’s not cooperating.”  
  
John glanced around them. The DI and his team were now busy with the suspect, who was beginning to come to and protesting weakly against the straps of the gurney.  
  
“Left trouser pocket,” Sherlock called out impatiently.  
  
Someone with gloves (emergency responder? Police officer? Did it matter as long as it wasn’t Sherlock or John?) checked and yes—a handful of diamond rings.  
  
“Well, then—A  & E under escort for you,” DI Lawson commented darkly, motioning with his head for two officers to join the suspect in the ambulance.  
  
“Can we go now?” Sherlock hissed.  
  
“Can you get up?” John responded doubtfully.  
  
“Just. Get. Me. Up.” was the biting response.  
  
Okay. Clearly he was in pain, despite his denial, and clearly the leg was not working properly. All right. John could deal with this. “Let me get a cab and then we’ll get you into it, all right?” he said soothingly.  
  
“All right,” Sherlock agreed reluctantly. The only saving grace at the moment was the Lawson’s team was busy and that Lawson himself detested—and therefore was ignoring—the man who had gotten them a jewellery thief who had hit four other shops the previous week.  
  
John headed out to the main road and hailed a cab. It took a few minutes. Only Sherlock could seemingly conjure the vehicles from thin air. By the time he had gotten back, Sherlock was gritting his teeth and still being ignored. John was getting a bit ticked off about it. “Don’t,” his mate warned. He had obviously noted the glint of anger in his companion’s eye. “Just get me home.”  
  
Immediately John was contrite. No, this was not the time to go “all army captain,” as Sherlock described (often shivering in delight) on anyone. He could do that later, after he got his sweetheart home and comfortable (he mentally tallied up how many cold gel packs they had in the freezer). “Yeah, all right,” he answered a bit huskily. “Let’s get you up.”  
  
Six feet of consulting detective bodily hauled up by a compact but strong ex-army captain. Brilliant. Down the steps (and John was celebrating at this point the fact that his mate was possibly a bit underweight) and slowly, carefully, out to the road. Getting into the cab was a bit tricky and left Sherlock pale and breathing deeply through his nose.  
  
“Don’t you dare be sick in the cab,” John warned sternly, as if that would prevent it. But Sherlock nodded obediently. Okay. Thankfully not a terribly long—okay an unbearably long with the traffic and all—ride. “You all right?” John asked at one point. Sherlock’s reply was to slip his hand into John’s. John stroked and squeezed it and whispered, “I love you, you ridiculous git,” and that made Sherlock smile.  
  
Oh, good. Baker Street without any bodily fluids in the cab. “Good job,” he muttered as he paid the fare. Haul six feet of fading-fast-detective up and out. Fish for the key. Up the stairs. Be grateful Mrs H was out (book club night even though Sherlock claimed only somewhat facetiously that they met for much darker, more nefarious purposes and Mrs Hudson would giggle and slap him playfully on the shoulder).  
  
“How shall we manage the stairs?” he wondered aloud. “And why couldn’t you have found a ground-level flat?”  
  
“Carefully,” Sherlock replied, “and I got us good rent.”  
  
It took a bit on both their parts, but finally they were in their own sitting room. John had offered to get Sherlock to the bedroom but he had declined. “Rather be out here,” he admitted.  
  
“I could come with you,” John responded softly.  
  
No. Sofa it was. John untangled Sherlock from his ridiculous coat and suit jacket and got him lying as flat out as he could manage. Hanging up his own coat, he finally remarked, “All right. Time to get to it. Trousers off.”  
  
“Why, Doctor, I believe you’re being a bit ‘forward,’” Sherlock teased.  
  
“I adore stripping you,” the doctor replied with a smile.  
  
The smile faded to nothing as the trousers came down. “Oh, shit, Sherlock,” he commented, holding his hand a centimetre over the thin thigh and actually feeling the heat coming off it. The bruise, still forming, was dark and red and hot and nasty.  
  
No, no broken bones, but this was a bruise deep within the thigh muscle, and it would bother him for weeks.  
  
“Okay, time for some cold,” he simply said, keeping calm. He went into the kitchen and retrieved the first of many gel packs, wrapped it in a tea towel, and returned to the sitting room. “Sorry,” he murmured as he applied the pack…  
  
It was the most impressive bruise Sherlock had ever gotten, and John memorialized it with a photo. Black and dark purple, it covered the thin thigh in a large oval configuration. It took nearly six weeks to fade entirely. But since the jewellery thief had been stopped, it was all worth it.  
  
*  
  
Weeks later, John noted that the bruise was finally, completely gone, brushing his hand approvingly over the spot. Then he kissed Sherlock rather fervently and made him promise (PROMISE—not your usual bullshit) to not do that again.  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

What was it about the man? John marvelled as they were happily shown to their favourite table. Angelo beamed as he lit the candle on it and handed John a menu. Sure, Sherlock had done Angelo a favour a few years ago, but that was a few years ago. Had he really earned a lifetime of gratitude, or was it something more?  
  
They were both tired and John had decided that they deserved to be spoilt a bit. They had been dealing with a delicate and upsetting case, and Sherlock had been showing signs of strain from the beginning, snapping at witnesses and even telling John that he was being “more idiotic than usual.” John had reprimanded him at first, but as they dug more deeply into the bizarre and disturbing facts, he realised that he was not helping by being so critical.  
  
And then there was the denouement. Sherlock had just identified the poisoner of the middle-aged man as his ex-wife when they received news that she had killed herself. It had shaken the detective a great deal—he was blaming himself for not working quickly enough—and no amount of reassurance seemed to calm him. So here they were in their special restaurant, with John hoping that Angelo could cheer his friend up a bit.  
  
“I’ve got a fabulous special today,” the proprietor of the small restaurant bragged. He began to describe what sounded to John like a complicated but delicious dish, and before Angelo was even done describing it, he was nodding eagerly.  
  
“That sounds amazing,” he exclaimed. “Sherlock?”  
  
Whoops. John had been so focused on the other man that he hadn’t noticed his partner’s expression. Sherlock had been quiet on the way there, and had just smiled a bit shyly at the effusive greeting when they had arrived, but, the doctor realised, he hadn’t spoken a word in some time.  
  
And now Sherlock was panicking. He had gone pale, and his mouth was clamped firmly shut. His hands gripped the edge of the table. “Hey, could we get some water right away? I’m gasping,” he managed to ask casually.  
  
“Oh, certainly!” The large man bustled away from them.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said in a low tone, leaning across the table. He got no reply. “Sherlock, look at me,” he said a bit more firmly. “Are you all right?” Sherlock looked at him and shook his head.  
  
Damn.  
  
“Okay. It’s okay. Take a deep breath. Have some water when it gets here, yeah?”  
  
A nod.  
  
John reached across the table and placed his hands over the detective’s. “I think you’re more tired than we realised. Maybe we should have gone home.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Exhausted. Stressed. Overwhelmed. John knew that voice.  
  
Shit. Okay. This could be dealt with in a few ways. What was most realistic given the situation? John Watson was, after all, noted for his ability to think on his feet.  
  
“Hey, my sweet boy,” he whispered. “Was it too much—what Angelo was talking about?” Sherlock nodded rather emphatically. Right. John should have realised. For a man who ate sushi like other people consumed popcorn, Sherlock was extremely sensitive to certain foods. John had thought that his flatmate was just being annoyingly picky until he had discovered that it was an actual aversion. It wasn’t just that Sherlock didn’t _like_ peas and carrots together. He actually couldn’t eat them. He had tried some of the verboten dishes a few times, to make John happy, and every single time the attempt had ended rather abruptly and dramatically and with John apologising to a pale, sick man.  
  
There was no predicting the foods that would repel him, either. Sometimes it was a particular ingredient. No mushrooms. No courgettes. Radishes were right out.  
  
Sometimes it was the way that something was prepared or combined with something else. Fresh slices of peach were good, but peaches cooked in any way, shape, or form elicited disgust and aversion. Pork in the form of sausage or streaky bacon was terrific. A pork roast? No way. A cheddar and tomato sandwich was fine. A ham and Swiss sandwich was fine. Swiss and tomatoes? No. Absolutely not.  
  
And don’t even _think_ about putting anything in the mashed potatoes.  
  
John reviewed the special in his head. Pork medallions, mashed potatoes with wild mushrooms, and a courgette medley… oh, shit.  
  
“God, Sherlock. I’m sorry. It’s okay. Tell you what. How about we get you some nice fettucine in a plain cheese sauce, yeah? And some peas on the side? Would that be better?” Sherlock nodded. “And how about I have the penne a la vodka, like I usually do? And a nice green salad— _just_ greens.”  
  
Yes. That would be much more acceptable. Sherlock sighed in relief.  
  
A waiter arrived with their water and John ordered their less-scary meals.  
  
*  
  
It had been a harrowing meal. Despite the doctor having selected the least-offensive menu items he could for them, Sherlock hadn’t been able to manage. He shrank away from the full plate that was placed in front of him. Too much at once. Too overwhelming. All right. John could fix this, too.  
  
“Can I have another plate? A small one,” he asked the waiter. “We want to share a bit.”  
  
Once the plate arrived, John set to work. Smiling gently, he slid the offending platter across the table and neatly and quickly began cutting up the long strands of pasta.  
  
“There. Is that better, my sweetheart?” He put the small plate with some of the cut-up fettucine in front of Sherlock. He then moved the spoon next to the peas (which were, thankfully, in a small dish of their own with no signs of any other garden items intruding). “Now, can you be a big boy and eat some of that?”  
  
“’kay,” Sherlock replied in a shaky voice.  
  
Despite everything, not much was consumed. John had politely refused the offer of a bottle of wine while Sherlock stared rather dismally out the window. It was obvious when Sherlock had had enough. He suddenly dropped his spoon and pushed the dishes away.  
  
“Okay. That’s fine,” John soothed. “You did the best you could, and I’m really proud of you. How about some dessert?” It wasn’t ideal, filling him up on sugar, but it was calories in and he really, truly had tried with his main course. He ordered a simple dish of sherbet.  
  
That went over much better. Sherlock willingly began to eat it, swirling his spoon down the sides of the glass dish and licking it off. “Can Daddy have a taste?” John asked playfully. Sherlock grinned at him—that sweet, genuine, boyish grin that John would give a million pounds to see—carefully loaded up the spoon, and fed his Daddy some of the yummy, cold treat.  
  
Soon enough it was all gone. The leftovers were safely packed for them to take home. “All done? Let’s go home, sweet boy. Do you need to use the toilet?” Sherlock thought about it, then shook his head. “Are you sure? Because the last time you said no, there was a bit of a problem, wasn’t there?” John reminded him gently. “Why don’t you go try for Daddy, okay? Or do you want me to go with you?”  
  
Yes, that would be better, was the consensus. John felt a bit self-conscious walking into the gents together—it was, after all, just a single toilet—but then he shrugged. They could be going in there together for any reason.  
  
As they walked out the door, Angelo gazed thoughtfully out the window after them.  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

“What?” John answered his mobile flatly. He was in no mood to deal with Mycroft.  
  
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I presume that he can be quite naughty.”  
  
“WHAT?!” His mouth felt dry.  
  
“You’re becoming redundant, doctor. I said I presume that you’re doing it properly and punishing him when he’s naughty.”  
  
John sat down. Hard. _How the fuck—?_ “You put the cameras back,” he finally managed. His mouth felt like he was sucking on a towel.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. I never had them taken out.” The supercilious mirth oozed out of the tiny mobile speaker.  
  
“Mycroft! That’s invasion of privacy!” John spluttered.  
  
“Don’t panic. Just in the sitting room and kitchen.” He sounded a bit bored now.  
  
“That’s hardly the point,” he managed. _Oh God what had they been doing in the sitting room and kitchen? A lot. Oh God._ His mouth felt like he was sucking on an entire duvet now.  
  
“Don’t worry so. We don’t actually watch all that much.”  
  
 _WE? Oh shit. Okay, John, get a hold of yourself. Deal with this the way you usually dealt with the elder Holmes brother._ “No? That’s good to hear. Because I’m fairly sure that you watching your little brother getting off with his flatmate would be considered a bit perverted. Or is that why you do it? You like to watch? Because there’s some perfectly good websites—”  
  
“Stop it.”  
  
“Why? Does it embarrass you? You? The Ice Man?”  
  
“No, Dr Watson. It doesn’t _embarrass_ me. It’s just sex, and as my baby brother is finally no longer a virgin, I’m delighted for him. In fact, I’m very happy for you both, especially after your rather long list of relationship failures.” John winced. That was a low blow. “That’s not why I called and you know it.”  
  
 _No, it wasn’t why the pompous git had called. It wasn’t the sex (and God knew that the kitchen table and his chair in particular had taken a beating, so to speak). It was—fuck._  
  
“That’s right, doctor. I’m calling about your more recent… hobby, shall we say?”  
  
John wondered if he could somehow reach through the phone and strangle “The British Government” with his own tie. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Well, there’s no sense in denying it,” he said steadily.  
  
“None whatsoever.”  
  
“All right. Then what about it?” _What did he want? Mycroft never did anything without a specific purpose._ “Is this blackmail? Are you going to hold it over his head somehow? Or mine?”  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Mycroft sighed. “Are we back to that?” He sounded disappointed.  
  
“Sorry. Listen, can we just get to the point? Because if you’ve been watching us you know that I have to get dinner started soon.”  
  
“Very well. My point is that yes, I know that sometimes you and Sherlock—what would be the appropriate word?—‘play,’ I suppose. That sometimes you treat him like a baby, or a toddler. I also know when it started and why, and I actually wish to thank you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Oh, do _stop_ that. Sherlock has been tightly wound his whole life, Doctor. Even as a small child—he wouldn’t sleep. He’d sit in his cot and talk to himself for hours, when he wasn’t escaping from it or taking it apart.” John smiled a bit at this image. “He was always a bit… different. He was so easily overstimulated. Noise. Food. Lights. Even his cot sheets—Mummy had to buy special ones.”  
  
John just listened.  
  
“Our parents had a difficult time soothing him. He couldn’t stand being in crowds, especially with other children. After one particularly disastrous Christmas party, we stopped going to them.”  
  
“Go on,” the doctor encouraged softly.  
  
“He would get so very upset, and that just exacerbated the problem. He couldn’t accept any comfort. He’d be almost sick—completely overwhelmed—but if anyone tried to soothe him, or hold him, or even just touch him, he’d fall apart. He’d have hysterics.”  
  
“What did your parents do?”  
  
“Mainly, they just left him alone. They didn’t know what else to do. Dad would scoop him up and put him in his cot, turn out the light, and we’d all be very quiet until he had calmed down. Sometimes music would help. Classical. Instrumental only.”  
  
“All right. Yes. He’s still very much like that.” John thought of the hundreds of times Sherlock had shouted at everyone to Shut Up; how he would put a physical boundary between himself and people he felt were intrusive. His loathing of any sort of mass transit. His food issues. Yes, still very much like that.  
  
“Very much,” Mycroft agreed.  
  
“So why are you telling me all this now?” John finally inquired. Would have been nice to know a bit earlier, yeah?  
  
“I wanted to thank you. You seem to have hit on something that actually does comfort him. Calms him. I appreciate that. Sincerely. I worry about him so much. But I also know that he can be—a handful.” John chuckled. Understatement of the century. “And my understanding of the social convention is that when a child is in trouble, one uses their full name as a warning that they’ve crossed the line.”  
  
John snickered. Only Mycroft Holmes would explain it that way. Pompous arse. “Well, yeah,” he agreed instead. “When I heard ‘John Hamish Watson’ I knew I was in deep sh… trouble.”  
  
“So please use it, when necessary. He needs limits. You know that. And he needs to be punished when he’s naughty.”  
  
“So you’re really all right with all of this?” John pushed.  
  
“Yes. It’s fine. Just—” and he interrupted himself with a sigh. “—just take care of my baby brother, please, Doctor.”  
  
“Yeah. Okay. He’s home.” John ended the call without another word.  
  
*  
  
“Who were you talking to?” Sherlock frowned, hanging up his coat and scarf.  
  
“Sarah. Work. Is it windy again? Your hair…” John reached up and ran his fingers through the messy curls.  
  
“Yes. What’s for dinner? I’m unaccountably peckish tonight.”  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat back in his chair. He was feeling… what was the word?  
  
Dinner had been surprisingly nice. John had done a simple pasta dish, but he had made the usual cream sauce a bit differently—rather daring, actually, and Sherlock could see that his mate was nervous about it when he set the small bowl in front of him. Another small bowl with peas ( _just_ peas) was presented as well. And a spoon.  
  
Sherlock loved John so very, very much.  
  
And the pasta was delicious—flavourful without being overwhelming or complicated or lumpy. He ate three bowls full, and all of his peas.  
  
*  
  
John was so pleased that dinner had gone well. He had tried a new recipe for a light cream sauce that didn’t seem too complicated (for his cooking skills _or_ Sherlock’s palate) and it had been a hit. As he was now in the practice of doing, he cut up the fettucine and served his mate a small amount in an un-alarming bowl. He was extremely gratified to have to refill the bowl twice.  
  
John loved Sherlock so very, very much.  
  
He loved him especially when he ate three small bowls of pasta and all of his peas.  
  
*  
  
“Would you play for me, please?”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really. Please.” John gestured toward the music stand.  
  
“What’s brought this on?” Sherlock inquired while obediently rising and retrieving his violin case.  
  
“Tube ride home.”  
  
“Explain.” He tightened his bow, then frowned in concentration as he began to tune the instrument. He split his attention between his A-string and his blogger, who had dropped into his chair with a rapt look on his so-expressive face.  
  
“I want to clear all the crap out of my ears.”  
  
“What do you mean?” he demanded, moving to the D-string.  
  
“There was the most annoying young man playing some sort of—whatever it was. Horrid.” John shuddered at the memory.  
  
“That’s unusual.” G-string.  
  
“I felt like I was under attack. The language alone—”  
  
“Says the man who…” He paused to encourage the G-string along. It always seemed to lag behind the others. Lazy string. “… has a rather colourful vocabulary,” he teased.  
  
“Not when there’s decent people around!” the ex-army captain protested with a grin.  
  
“So I’m not decent?” Oh, good. G-string had cooperated. Just E left.  
  
“Rarely. Preferably not, actually,” the doctor mused, watching his mate intently.  
  
 _Oh, doctor. You give yourself away so easily._ Sherlock smiled to himself. “I’ve got an idea. Come here.” He beckoned with his bow. A questioning look on his face, John rose and approached. “Here,” he said, simply, shoving the instrument into the startled doctor’s hand.  
  
“What?”  
  
Sherlock tucked the bow in the surprised man’s other hand and moved quickly so he was behind him. “Here,” he said softly, reaching around the shorter man. “Hold this… like this. And that… there.”  
  
“Sherlock, this is probably not a good idea. I failed miserably at clarinet, remember?”  
  
“Completely different instrument. Stringed instruments need… fingers here… someone who’s good with their hands. I am fairly sure… and like that… that you fit the bill.”  
  
“You really want me to do this?” John sounded about as sceptical as Sherlock had ever heard him.  
  
“Yes. I’m not expecting Itzhak Perlman. I just think you’ll appreciate it even more when I play if you knew how it felt.”  
  
“Oh. Well. I suppose. What do I do next?”  
  
“Here.” And Sherlock placed his large hands over John’s smaller ones, his chest against John’s back, and for the first time ever John got to experience the beauty—the fullness—the intensity of the music that Sherlock played from the inside.  
  
It was incredible. It was fantastic. It was…  
  
Oh.  
  
It was also quite apparent that Sherlock, who was pressed up against his back, was experiencing something that was perhaps rather more basic.  
  
And that was fine.  
  
More than fine.  
  
“Sherlock…”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
And the freshly-tuned violin was left on its own for quite a while as Sherlock demonstrated to John that he possibly could have played clarinet as well as violin, and John demonstrated to Sherlock that even with his lack of training he could make music with his fingers.  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, John was his doctor-self, gentle and careful and moving slowly and explaining what he was going to do:  
  
I’ve been wanting to kiss you like this all day  
  
I want to taste you right… there  
  
You need a back rub  
  
  
  
And sometimes John was all army captain and commanding and ordering and Sherlock was perfectly willing to be told what to do:  
  
Take your clothes off  
  
Open your mouth  
  
Deeper  
  
  
  
And then John was just John, and those were the best bits:  
  
You are such a ridiculous man  
  
Watch out for the lamp  
  
God, I love you  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

In the race to initiate it, it was a photo finish. After they burst exultantly into the flat, it was virtually impossible to say who was more eager, which resulted in—thank goodness Mrs Hudson was out—a frankly amazing session of very naked John-and-Sherlock-and-the-sofa with a little Sherlock-and-John-on-the-desk thrown in and just a smattering of Sherlock’s-mouth-and-John’s-cock-up-against-the-wall for good measure—  
  
“That. Was. Amazing,” John panted. “You were driving me mad today. Was all that bending over at the crime scene really necessary?” The taller man had grinned wickedly as he wiped his lips with his thumb. “I need some water. You’re going to have some too.”  
  
John wobbled off towards the kitchen, wiping the sweat from his eyes, in search of large glasses of water for both of them. Sherlock watched him go as he wandered over to the fireplace, wondering if he could get away with having a cigarette—just one. He had some stashed in the skull. But as he approached his bony friend, he was seized with the oddest sensation. It was like falling down a well and being tossed over by the surf and searing in the sun and plunging into a snowbank all at once. His stomach seemed to turn inside-out. A grey haze encroached, clouding his peripheral vision. He could hear nothing but the roar and rush of his own blood as his heart began to pound painfully in his chest.  
  
His eyes dropped shut and the floor bucked and swayed. He tried to catch himself on the mantel. His head fell to his chest. His knees buckled and his fingers lost their purchase and he went down.  
  
John, who had glanced over at him while filling the glasses, watched in amazement and horror as Sherlock collapsed. He dropped the glasses into the sink and bounded over.  
  
Crap. He had simply folded down upon himself and then fallen over onto his left side.  
  
“Okay. It’s all right. I’ve got you.” He began a litany of assurances whilst simultaneously pulling the thin man over, gently, so he was lying on his back. His face was grey and his mouth lax; he was completely out. The doctor groped for a pulse. Slow and weak. Not unexpected. He gently raised each eyelid. Pupils dilated.  
  
“Okay, let’s get you straightened out,” he murmured as he reached up and grabbed a seat cushion. Sherlock twitched a bit. “Come on back, now,” John encouraged as he raised his legs with the cushion. His eyelids fluttered and he closed his mouth. “How are you doing, Sherlock? Can you look at me?”  
  
“Mmm,” was the feeble response.  
  
“Okay. Good. Listen. I’m going to get you a blanket, and make you comfortable, and you’re going to lie here for a bit. All right?”  
  
“Mmm.” His eyelids fluttered again, but it seemed as if they were too heavy for him to lift them.  
  
John grabbed the afghan from his chair and tucked it carefully over the still figure. Then he retrieved his pants and trousers from opposite sides of the room and slid them on hurriedly before seeking out his medical bag. There. Blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.   
  
“Eighty over 50? Christ, Sherlock! Why didn’t you tell me you felt ill?” He unwrapped the cuff from the thin arm.  
  
“Didn’t.” He hadn’t, but he certainly did now.  
  
“You need water, and dinner. No…” he continued, thwarting Sherlock’s attempted interruption. “I know you probably feel like you’re going to be sick, but I can promise you that having some water will help. Are you going to cooperate?”  
  
Sherlock sighed. Close enough.  
  
John pondered as he returned to the kitchen. Yes, he wanted to get water into him, but he also wanted to keep him lying down. Without further consideration, he grabbed a training cup from the cupboard and filled it with cold water.  
  
“Are you joking?” Sherlock muttered, his eyes slitted open, as he approached.  
  
“Nope. This is the best solution to this little issue, and you’re going to—quite literally—lie there and take it. All right?”  
  
“Harrumph.”  
  
Despite the gravity of the situation, John smiled a bit. It was, after all, fairly ridiculous. He wondered how many other people in the world were spending their evening: 1) Examining puncture wounds on a dead petrol station attendant; 2) Nearly getting run over chasing after the petrol station attendant’s boyfriend, who had stupidly come back to retrieve the awl; 3) Having obscenely good sex in various places and in various ways whilst being eternally thankful that their landlady was out; and 4) Cradling the head of your boyfriend, who happened to be lying flat out on the sitting room floor naked, with a fairly hideous afghan over him, and encouraging him to rehydrate himself via a training cup with Winnie-the-Pooh and Tigger on it.  
  
“Can you hold it yourself?” A downright pathetic attempt followed. “Not yet? That’s all right. I’ve got you.”  
  
If there _were_ any other people experiencing such an evening, he wanted to know who they were so he could stay as far away from them as possible, because they were completely bonkers.  
  
When he had finished about half of the water, John requested again, and this time Sherlock managed to grab the cup—almost completely by himself. John gently guided it back to his mouth and steadied it a bit. “Keep at it. I’m going to order us dinner.”  
  
He rose and found his mobile, which had fallen out of the pocket of some article of clothing—he wasn’t sure which. “Yeah. Angelo. It’s John. He’s done it again. Could you please send… yeah… as fast as you can? Thanks so much.”  
  
That accomplished, John searched out more in which to clothe himself. He couldn’t find his shirt (he discovered it the next day under the desk), so he slid his jumper over bare skin. Good enough for now.  
  
“How are you doing with that?” he asked sharply. Sherlock glared at him and raised the cup to his lips again. He glanced at his watch. “When that’s done, I want to get you onto the sofa. All right?” Based on Sherlock’s rate of consumption, that would make it half an hour of lying flat. He wouldn’t push him, of course, but he did want to get him off the floor.  
  
“Slowly,” he murmured, very gently raising his sweetheart into a seated position. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered and he made a weak but somewhat alarmed sound. “Okay. Stop here. Do you need to go back down?” Oh, yes, was the determination, and John patiently lowered him again. “It’s all right. Wait there,” he added unnecessarily. He took the empty cup and returned to the kitchen, glancing back at the pale figure on the floor every few seconds.   
  
“I’m back,” he announced. “Try some of this.” This time the training cup held watered-down juice. That seemed to go down more easily. “Yeah. Get some sugar into you. Not the best thing, but quick. Starting to feel a bit better?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John went to find some loose clothing for his mad man.  
  
*  
  
“Excellent. I’m proud of you.” John beamed at his sweetheart. After the juice was done, he had managed to move him to the sofa and got him into some clothes. Angelo had sent the promised meal in record time—a seafood linguine in a white wine sauce. John had enjoyed his own dinner—a nice steak and a salad. Angelo knew them all too well.  
  
“You feeling better?” he asked, clearing away the remains of their meal. Sherlock nodded. “Then how about we curl up in bed and get some sleep?”  
  
“Yes,” was the simple reply.  
  
John got him down the hall to the bathroom and steadied him as he brushed his teeth and used the toilet. Into bed and pulled the duvet up and smoothed it over him. His eyes were already shut. The doctor slipped back into the bathroom, then changed and shut the light and slid into the bed.  
  
And then he began to giggle.  
  
“What?” John could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice.   
  
“This is even better than being ‘Three-Continents Watson.’”  
  
“Why?” He was definitely smiling.  
  
“I’m the person who Fucked Sherlock Holmes Senseless.”  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Cat lover left-handed far-sighted going deaf Catholic… don’t  
  
Midwife unfaithful putting on weight blister on… stop  
  
Vegan sinus infection doesn’t believe in deodorant… go away  
  
God, he hated the Tube.  
  
  
  
Walking three across she’s cheating on the boy with the other girl…interesting  
  
New cook at Speedy’s some sort of mushroom gravy… vile  
  
That song again it’s been a thousand times… make her stop  
  
The impressions from the crowded street swirled in front of his eyes and wrapped around his head and lapped at his limbs as he stumbled up the stairs. They clung to him and threatened to pull him down.  
  
  
  
Into the flat. Close the door. Lean against it. Make sure nothing followed him in…  
  
  
  
new furniture polish date tomorrow… shut up  
  
  
  
He tore off his coat and scarf, tossing them carelessly on the sofa, immediately moving to the windows to yank the curtains shut. He fell into his chair at the desk and caught a glimpse of a handwritten note left there.  
  
  
  
Right handed public school unhappily married… don’t  
  
Bargain hunts spent time in America… shut it  
  
Manager new position… STOP  
  
  
  
He thrust the note away, shutting his eyes.  
  
Increase with new position… NO  
  
  
  
He stumbled through the kitchen.  
  
Date with plumber tomorrow… DON’T  
  
  
  
Into the bedroom. Close the door. Lean against it. Make sure nothing followed him in…  
  
late for work   
  
short on cash   
  
colder than expected …   
  
  
  
“Stop it stop it STOP IT!” he roared.  
  
He ripped off his clothing, balling it all up and throwing it viciously into a corner. He dove head-first under the duvet, pulling a pillow over his head for good measure.  
  
New shampoo… please  
  
Last client had paid… no more  
  
  
  
He took a deep breath.  
  
  
  
new shampoo… nice  
  
old shave gel… fine  
  
wool and toast… John  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

He had never been into that whole “nappy” thing. Never. Not even in his wildest dreams did it entice him. He loved the idea of being taken care of—being dressed and fed and bathed and even the bottles and dummies and if he had maybe experimented a bit on his own that was his business and his alone—but no nappies. Not really. Not to really use them.  
  
But then there had been that night.  
  
**  
  
 _He had been bored out of his skull in the lull after a particularly interesting and intense case, and his solution for the boredom was “a bad choice” on his part; “illegal” in case he had forgotten, and “could give him a heart attack” or whatever banal doctor-speech John had given him. Throw in some “withdrawals like none he had ever experienced before” for good measure and—_  
  
 _Well_  
  
 _He hadn’t meant to. Clearly he hadn’t. Not in a million years. He didn’t even remember it, really. No, he didn’t at all, to be honest. But he did remember the aftermath. He remembered the shouting. He remembered the laundry. He remembered the shame._  
  
 _Sherlock Holmes, one of the three most brilliant men in London (well, the entire UK, really), had pissed the bed._  
  
 _The bed that he was sharing with John._  
  
 _He had. He actually had._  
  
 _He was mortified._  
  
 _He expected horror. He expected recriminations. He expected shouting. He expected John to leave._  
  
 _So he left instead._  
  
*  
  
 _Hours. He spent hours walking._  
  
 _When he had woken up, he had still been muzzy-headed. In addition to the doctor-speechifying, John had actually dispensed medication in the form of a pain killer strong enough that he didn’t even keep it in their flat but had had to go out to pick it up. It had, fortunately, knocked out the headache that threatened to split Sherlock’s skull in two. It had also, unfortunately, knocked out Sherlock. You did this on purpose he had realised just as he slipped into unconsciousness._  
  
 _So it hadn’t been exactly a good night’s sleep, and coming to felt like he was breaking through the pavement from the underside—with his head. He had rolled onto his side, away from John, in an attempt to somehow reset the centre of gravity in his brain, which was leaning dangerously towards the right. And that was when he became aware of—_  
  
 _it_  
  
 _It being—_  
  
 _Really?_  
  
 _It being cold and wet in the general vicinity of his—_  
  
 _It took him more than a few seconds to process this, but when he did—_  
  
 _Oh, God—_  
  
 _He was out of the bed like a shot, glancing at John as he rounded the bed in a panic and headed for the bathroom._  
  
 _Thankfully, John was sound asleep. Sherlock hastily turned on the taps and stepped into the shower, gasping at the temperature—he hadn’t allowed time for the hot water to run. He didn’t care. He shoved the now-soaked clothing off, kicking it viciously to the end of the tub whilst he grabbed his shower gel and, faster than he ever thought possible, got himself cleaned and out and dried off. He dashed back into the bedroom—John was still asleep—grabbed some clothing, and was dressed and out of the flat in less than five minutes._  
  
 _And then he had walked and walked and walked and ignored the texts and the calls and the message alerts. And then he shoved his mobile into one of his deep pockets…_  
  
 _and kept walking._  
  
*  
  
 _“Damn it, Sherlock. Would you please answer me?” John shouted uselessly at his phone. He put it down (well, threw it down) and tried to relieve the burning in his neck muscles. His back muscles. His shoulders… every muscle in his body. He was so tense he had pretty much shut off his own circulation, and that wasn’t doing anyone any good. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly…_  
  
 _and picked up his mobile again._  
  
*  
  
 _Sherlock was vaguely aware of where he was. If he had wanted to, of course he could have oriented himself any time he wished. He didn’t want to._  
  
 _He just wanted to walk._  
  
 _And not think._  
  
*  
  
 _“No, he didn’t do anything illegal. Not this morning, at least.” There was a pause as both of them considered this. It could wait. “But there was… look, I can’t tell you what it was, but he’s out there and not in a good frame of mind and he won’t answer me. Maybe you’d have better luck?”_  
  
 _“Yeah. Okay. I’ll text him. I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Try to get him home, yeah?”_  
  
 _“Thank you, Greg.”_  
  
 _John slumped into his chair and covered his eyes with his hands._  
  
*  
  
 _He glanced at his mobile. The text alert had been Lestrade’s. He wanted to see what pretext the DI had come up with to contact him; it was obvious that John had engaged his assistance in retrieving him._  
  
Go home you wanker  
  
 _So much for pretext._  
  
Phone John then go home.  
  
He wants you home  
  
 _Sherlock considered this. Not what he was expecting. Interesting. Being surprised was always—well, surprising. He looked up from the screen to ponder…_  
  
 _When had it gotten dark?_  
  
 _What time was it?_  
  
 _Where was he?_  
  
 _He looked around, orienting himself. He was suddenly aware that his legs ached and his head ached and he was cold and tired and his mobile battery was going and he wanted to be home no matter what he thought he would encounter._  
  
 _He expected horror. He expected recriminations. He expected shouting. He expected John to leave. Instead he got…_  
  
 _Really?_  
  
 _He got—understanding. Not entirely. Not completely. There was, without a doubt, shouting (John was quite creative with his shouting at times). There were, without a doubt, recriminations (he would have to do the laundry)._  
  
 _When he had actually gotten home—the 17 steps up to the flat being the longest, steepest walk he had ever taken—John was involved in making dinner. At first he had barely even glanced at him—he was intent on chopping up potatoes. When he got them into the boiling water, though, he had wiped his hands on the tea towel, and he had let him have it._  
  
 _Shouting about his disappearing act. Shouting about the condition that had led to John using the extra-strength pain killer on him, which had led to the issue at hand._  
  
 _As ordered, he had crept to the bedroom and gathered up the bedclothes (John had already stripped the bed, but they were all in a heap in the middle of the floor and Sherlock didn’t need to be a detective to figure out that that was a “message” and/or John just being really, really angry) and picked up his still-wet, crumpled clothing from the bottom of the tub and shoved everything in the washer and…_  
  
 _John had put dinner in front of him and he ate it all without question, even if he felt awful and sick afterward. He deserved it, didn’t he? He did the washing up without even being asked._  
  
 _And then, finally, after he had retreated to the safety of his laptop and was fairly fruitlessly making himself look busy (Really? Commenting on one of those period films on IMDB? How desperate was he to avoid the inevitable?) John had finally decided that it was time to address “the issue.”_  
  
 _In a way that still had him completely baffled._  
  
 _“It’s all right, you know,” John commented offhandedly while flicking through channels on the telly._  
  
 _Sherlock froze. He really, quite literally, had no idea what to say or how to react to that._  
  
 _“I mean, you were in fairly dire physical straits last night, weren’t you? I was this close (and he held his fingers up, pressed together to indicate how close) to calling an ambulance. There’s only so much I can do here, you know.”_  
  
 _Sherlock realised that his mouth had fallen open and shut it, quickly. He let John continue (and John please continue because at this moment one of the most gregarious men you will ever meet is actually, literally speechless)._  
  
 _“So, like I said, it’s okay. Not the greatest thing in the world, but not the end of the world, either.”_  
  
 _Sherlock remained silent._  
  
 _“But I got you something that might help sometimes.” And he had gotten up and approached the insane man who for some reason he thought was the best thing ever and cradled his chin in his hand and spoke soothing, sweet, meaningless words while he gasped and apologised and cried and apologised and sobbed and his head was going to burst and what would John do and would he leave and who else would put up with him and he really hadn’t meant to and didn’t even remember it and he was the worst person ever and really why couldn’t he catch his breath—_  
  
 _“It’s all right, Sherlock. Breathe.”_  
  
 _And John rocked him and rocked him until he wasn’t him anymore. Until he felt his stomach unclench a bit and his head ached in a different way than it had the day before and his face was hot and wet and his clothing was hot and tight and Daddy rocked him._  
  
 _And then Daddy led him down the hall and there was a bath but no toys and that was fair. And then into the bedroom, all shivery, and Daddy wanted to dress him appropriately and there they were._  
  
 _The Pants._  
  
 _The night-time pants._  
  
 _Not quite nappies. No. But… close. Shaped like his usual pants, but thick. Extra thick._  
  
 _And they felt…_  
  
 _Yes, they did._  
  
 _They really did._  
  
 _Oh, nice and thick and sensible cotton and Daddy was putting them on him and they felt—_  
  
 _They felt marvellous._  
  
 _They felt_ safe.  
  
 _“It’s all right, Sherlock. This is just another way that Daddy needs to take care of you. On… upsetting nights, we can use these, all right? Not perfect but better. And if you need a wee, just let me know, okay? Daddy doesn’t mind at all taking his sweet boy to use the toilet. Honestly. Okay?”_  
  
 _Sherlock was fairly certain that he wasn’t on earth anymore; he must be in heaven._  
  
**  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This directly follows Chapter 33 of ENDPOINT: His Innocence

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Greg blurted out as soon as John reappeared.  
  
“Well, no beating around the bush, yeah?” John responded. He grabbed two glasses and a bottle of Jameson and brought them to the sitting room.  
  
“Don’t fuck with me, John. I just read _Sherlock Holmes_ a fucking bedtime story.”  
  
“Do you have a copy of _Go the Fuck to Sleep_?” John shot back, amused. He motioned with the bottle for Greg to have a seat by the fire.  
  
“What the fuck is _that_?” Greg ran his fingers through his spikey grey hair and accepted a glass.  
  
“And there’s a new one that’s just as perfect: _You Have to Fucking Eat,_ ” John mused, pouring each of them a stiff two (or possibly three) fingers. “I’ll ship you copies. My treat.”  
  
“John,” Greg said sternly; sincerely. “Please tell me what the fuck is going on. You two aren’t having me on, are you?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Greg Lestrade took a deep breath and even deeper drink. Paused for a second. Composed himself. Took another deep breath. “Okay,” he huffed out. “Just to review: when I came in, Sherlock—as in Sherlock Holmes, consulting dickhead—was sitting on the floor, colouring. You were folding—what was it?”  
  
“His blanket.”  
  
“Yeah, that. And then I (God I really did, didn’t I?) filled up a bottle with juice for him, and he took my hand (that really happened, too?) and we went into your bedroom (and that was more than a bit awkward, mate, on far too many levels now) and he asked me to read him a story, and I read him—what was it?”  
  
“ _Winnie-the-Pooh_. You did the chapter with Pooh and Piglet hunting a Woozle.”  
  
“Right.” He took another good slug and John refilled his glass.  
  
John took more time finishing his first drink. He was feeling surprisingly calm—now, at least. When Greg had first come in the door so unexpectedly, discovering their evening of domestic bliss in the form of Daddy and Little ‘Lock, he thought his head would explode. Sherlock had been the one to save them, which was interesting, by seamlessly adding “Uncle Greg” into their equation. John thought that pointing this out to Greg would perhaps help. “You should take that as a huge compliment, you know.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“He’s never been Little in front of anyone else.”  
  
“’Little.’”  
  
“Yeah. That’s what it’s called. Well, one of the things it’s called. You can also call it infantilism, or non-sexual age play.”  
  
“Non-sexual? So this isn’t…” Greg found that he couldn’t finish his sentence, so he stopped talking and focused on finishing his drink instead.  
  
“No. God, no. _Never.”_  
  
“’Cause the only stuff I’ve heard of like that is pretty kinky. Sort of disgusting, really.”  
  
“No. I agree completely. We don’t do anything like that.”  
  
“But you do… _do_ that.” Greg felt his face warm as it turned crimson. “I mean, at other times.”  
  
“Uh… yeah. We do that, too.” John’s face wasn’t faring much better.  
  
“But that’s not what we’re talking about now.” _Please, don’t let’s talk about that now. One excruciatingly embarrassing conversation at a time._  
  
“No. Not at all.”  
  
“So what is it about?” That’s it. Bite the bullet. Dig right in. He was a detective inspector, after all.  
  
“Another?” John brandished the bottle.  
  
“Oh, God, yes.”  
  
So over several drinks each, John explained, in no particular order:  
  
John had researched it  
  
Sherlock hadn’t been into it at first  
  
Hell, Sherlock had been livid at first  
  
Sherlock liked bananas in warm milk with sugar and cinnamon  
  
Sherlock called John “Daddy”  
  
The Jameson’s was a “guilt gift” from when Sherlock destroyed the kitchen floor (and the second bottle was for the table)  
  
John was actually able to get Sherlock to sleep by reading children’s books to him  
  
Yes, he had dummies and bottles and toys and a blanket  
  
Yes, Daddy had to kiss Little ‘Lock good night  
  
When Sherlock was Little there were Rules  
  
No, Little Sherlock sucked at following the Rules just as much as Big Sherlock  
  
And at this point John paused and, without even glancing over his shoulder, called out “Sherlock, I know you’re out of bed. Get back in this instant.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“But nothing. Back to bed—now.”  
  
“’kay.” There was a deep huff of dissatisfaction that made Greg laugh.  
  
“So he’s still a wanker, huh?”  
  
“Oh yeah. There are about as many punishments as there are rules.”  
  
“Can I ask… I mean, how did this all get started? How long have you been…?” Greg couldn’t quite get himself to use the word “playing.”  
  
“Believe it or not, it all started with a case. One of yours, actually.” John leaned forward and swirled the whisky in his glass thoughtfully.  
  
“What? Explain.”  
  
So John explained how the box of age-play items from the Atkinsons’ flat had “mysteriously” ended up at their place, and how Sherlock had started to examine and then play with them, and how John had gradually introduced the idea that this could be something good for both of them.  
  
“I remember that stuff!” Greg exclaimed. “Shit. You know, now that I think about it, he did have a sort of funny reaction to it. But he was a mess during all that. She was the cutter, right?”  
  
John’s face fell. “Yes. And God, he was a mess for ages after. I can’t tell you how many times I had to fix him up.”  
  
“You told me about some of it. Not everything, I take it?”  
  
“No, not everything. Sherlock, what are you doing out of bed _again_?” Once again, John hadn’t turned his head. _How did he know?_ Greg wondered. “Parent radar,” John supplied.  
  
“Stop that,” he told the doctor.  
  
John sighed. “Come over here, my sweet boy.” Sherlock shuffled into view. He was wearing a different t-shirt and pyjama bottoms; Greg realized that John must have changed him when he had asked for a few minutes of privacy after the story. He was carrying a stuffed bunny by one leg, and he looked miserable. “What’s the matter, my love?” John asked tenderly.  
  
“Can’t sleep.”  
  
“No? Not even after juice and a story and your cosy jimjams and being tucked in with your bunny? Why, that’s terrible!” John tutted.  
  
“I can’t,” he insisted. He didn’t like it when Daddy teased him. He frowned.  
  
Greg stifled a giggle. God, this was so bizarre, but the six-foot man in front of him just looked so damn _cute_ at that moment.  
  
John sighed. “Why do you think that is?”  
  
“Don’t know.”  
  
“Yes, you do. You’re my clever boy and you always know these things.”  
  
Sherlock considered for a moment. “My… my insides feel funny.”  
  
John got a slightly more serious look on his face. “Funny, how, my love?”  
  
“Wavy.”  
  
John’s face cleared up. “Ah,” he replied. “I understand. Come on, love. Be right back.” He rose and grabbed Sherlock’s free hand, pulling him gently down the hall and into the bathroom.  
  
Five minutes later he was back, sans Sherlock. He smiled and sank back into his chair. “All set,” he declared.  
  
Greg just looked at him, and then he finally spoke. “Did you just take Sherlock to use the toilet?”  
  
“Well, yeah. He’s very Little today.”  
  
“Wait. It changes?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. Being Little isn’t about being a particular age. It’s more—it’s what you’ve seen. He needs taking care of, and I take care of him. Sometimes, when he’s older, it’s playing—we’re working on that model ship—or watching something on telly, or building blocks. Colouring.”  
  
“So what do you do when he’s ‘very Little,’ or don’t I want to know?”  
  
“Look, I know this is weird, and it obviously can’t go past these walls—” John paused and organised his thoughts. “But there are days when he honestly can’t take care of himself. I don’t mean Little Sherlock. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t rest. He drives himself nearly insane with puzzles and cases and trying to figure out what he doesn’t understand about people, and it wears him out. Completely. Honestly, I think this really started when I figured out why he didn’t like to eat.”  
  
“Well, he’s got an eating disorder, doesn’t he? I mean, we all just sort of assumed…”  
  
“Yes and no. It’s not that he doesn’t eat—you’ve seen him stuff his face when it comes to fish and chips or sweets—it’s that he’s really sensitive to certain tastes; textures. Some foods genuinely repulse him. Add in his—ah—temperamental stomach, and sometimes it’s almost impossible. So I started doing things differently. Simpler food. Smaller portions. It really seemed to help.”  
  
Greg nodded in encouragement.  
  
“And it sort of grew out of that. I mean, I suggested it, and believe me when I say that he was not terribly warm to the idea at first.”  
  
“So why did you pursue it?”  
  
“He was protesting too much.”  
  
“Ah.” Greg was familiar with that. _No, I didn’t just pocket evidence. Yes, I returned your handcuffs. No, I’m not hurting myself. Yes, I’m clean_.  
  
“So you were fine with all of this?” he asked instead.  
  
“At first? No. It totally, completely flipped me out.”  
  
“John Watson, if everyone had your honesty, there would be no need for the police,” he stated firmly, staring at the last of his whisky.  
  
“Yeah, I wish,” was the response. And then, “Sherlock! Third time out of bed. You know I have to give you a punishment now.”  
  
“Yes, Daddy,” was the meek reply. That gave John pause.  
  
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he pleaded. “What’s wrong? Why won’t you go to sleep?” Usually when Sherlock was this Little he truly tried to avoid punishments (which, when he was this Little were extremely mild—usually just a time out sitting on the bottom step without a dummy or blanket or his bunny) (when John could bear to do that to him).  
  
“Don’t want to sleep,” he explained carefully.  
  
“Come over here,” John sighed. Sherlock padded over to Daddy’s chair, bunny in tow. “Is it because we have company? Is it too exciting to go to sleep?” Sherlock nodded and John smiled gently. “All right. You can stay up with me and Uncle Greg, but you have to sit quietly. Can you do that?”  
  
“Yes!” Sherlock replied enthusiastically. He dropped to the floor and leaned against John’s knee, settling the bunny in his lap. He gazed affectionately at Greg, a genuine, warm smile that the DI rarely saw, and he smiled back.  
  
“He can’t,” John informed him.  
  
“I’m not surprised.”  
  
“I liked that story you read to me,” Sherlock piped up. John had to bite his lips to prevent himself from laughing aloud.  
  
“I liked it too,” Uncle Greg agreed.  
  
“It reminded me of Anderson,” he continued in a confidential tone.  
  
“And why is that?”  
  
“Going ‘round and ‘round and not knowing it was their own footprints!” He laughed at his own joke.  
  
“Sherlock! That’s not very nice,” John attempted to say sternly, but he gave up and laughed himself.   
  
Greg grinned and shook his head. Brat! “What other stories do you like?” he asked.  
  
“Pirate ones!” Sherlock sat straight up, pushing himself away from his daddy’s legs. “I’ve got lots of Jake and Neverland Pirates ones,” he bragged. “I’m a good detective.”  
  
“One of them’s one of those search for the object kind,” John explained. “But yeah, we’ve got lots of pirate books. Treasure hunts are always popular. Sherlock, tell Uncle Greg what other books you have.”  
  
“Mmm… oh! Winnie-the-Pooh. There’s lots of those.”  
  
“Really?” Greg was surprised.  
  
“We’ve got _Winnie-the-Pooh, The House at Pooh Corner, When We Were Very Young,_ and _Now We Are Six._ Those last two are poems. He really likes those.”  
  
“Lots of people only watch the stupid cartoons. The books are much better,” Sherlock declared, pouting a bit.  
  
“There’s some films that you like, though. Tell Uncle Greg about them,” John prompted.  
  
Sherlock considered this. “Oh! _Robin Hood._ It’s funny ‘cause Little John isn’t little but Daddy is—so he’s Big John, right?”  
  
“What else?”  
  
“ _Jungle Book_ and _Nemo_ and _Frozen._ ”  
  
“But you have a favourite, don’t you?” Daddy said persuasively.  
  
“Umm. Yeah.”  
  
“I’d like to know what it is,” Greg requested.  
  
“ _The Great Mouse…_ ” John started.  
  
“ _Detective!_ ” Sherlock burst out. “I love that one! Basil lives on Baker Street just like us, and he’s a detective, and his friend is a doctor, and he plays the violin just like me.”  
  
Greg blinked. He hadn’t seen the film in years and barely remembered it. He had never noticed the parallels. “That’s sort of an odd coincidence,” he commented.  
  
“There’s no such thing as ko-id-dences,” Sherlock declared solemnly. “Big Brother says so and he’s always right.”  
  
“Does his brother know about this?” Greg asked John.  
  
“Of course. The man spies on us. Sherlock, settle down.” He patted his knee and Sherlock laid his head on it.  
  
Greg thought about it for a few seconds before it hit him. “Oh, God. You mean he… spies… I thought he had taken the cameras out.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“So… uh…” Greg turned several shades of crimson.  
  
“Yup. That too,” John grimaced.  
  
“What’s the matter, Daddy?” Sherlock demanded, noticing the change in tone.  
  
“Just grown-up stuff, ‘Lock. It’s okay.” John ran his hand through the dark hair.  
  
“When I’m Big do we have to have a Talk?” he pouted.  
  
“Yeah, we do, but don’t worry about it right now.”  
  
“’kay. Can I look at a book now?”  
  
“Sure. Good idea. There’s a few—” Sherlock had already startled Greg by suddenly diving toward his chair. He reached a long arm under it and pulled out a small stack of books.  
  
“You must have stuff hidden all over the place,” Greg realised.  
  
“Yeah, a drugs bust right now would be a bit unfortunate,” John admitted.  
  
“Don’t worry. Unless he does something idiotic…”  
  
“Sherlock? No—never!”  
  
Sherlock glanced up at Daddy in confusion. He didn’t quite understand—Daddy’s words were saying one thing but his voice was saying something different. He shook his head and opened one of his books, tuning out the rest of the boring grown-up talking. “ _Night Pirates,_ ” he murmured as he turned the pages, looking at the pictures and telling himself the story…  
  
Greg and John chatted on.  
  
And then Greg paused in his explanation of why he preferred Pierce Brosnan to Timothy Dalton as Bond, a small smile on his face. John gave him a puzzled look, then followed his gaze down. Sherlock had fallen asleep, leaning against John’s leg, his book and bunny forgotten in his lap.  
  
“I should get him into bed,” John sighed, “before my leg goes numb.”  
  
“I should be heading home anyway.” The DI rose and stretched. “Do you need a hand?”  
  
“No. He’s pretty easy to manage like this. Can you see yourself out?”  
  
“Sure. Thanks for an… interesting evening, John.”  
  
The silver-haired man retrieved his coat and headed out. He glanced back in time to see John gently tugging a sleepy Sherlock up and, with his hands on his shoulders, guiding him towards the bedroom.  
  
 _The Great Mouse Detective?_ Okay. _Go the Fuck to Sleep?_ Even better.  
  
*  
  
It was nearly seven o’clock when John was awakened by agitated movement. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then slid out from under the duvet and padded around to the other side of the bed. “Come on, my love,” he murmured, pulling the cover off Sherlock and helping him up. “Let’s get you taken care of before you have an accident.” He would give him sliced bananas in milk with some cinnamon sugar for breakfast and see if his sweet boy wanted to watch one of his special programmes.  
  
God, he loved him so very much.  
  
  
  



	11. Chapter 11

“I hate it when they talk to you like that.” He hung up his coat so fiercely he nearly ripped the collar on the hook.  
  
“Like what?” The taller man looked at him in some alarm as he carefully removed his Belstaff.  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock. Like you’re a sociopath.” He held out a hand for the long dark coat.  
  
“No one does that.” He held the coat protectively to himself.  
  
“Donovan? Anderson?” John took a step back and gestured at the empty hook.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, John. They treat me like a _psychopath_. Their error, of course.” With infinite care, Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf, patting them tenderly.  
  
John blew his breath out in exasperation. He had managed to not kill Donovan when she had started with the snarky remarks. “She seemed to forget that _you_ figured out that the bride had run off with her first husband rather than ending up in the Serpentine.”  
  
He shrugged. “Donovan is rude and insulting. Anderson is idiotic and clumsy. At least Lestrade is bearable.”  
  
“Even he seemed a bit off today,” John remarked, strongly suspecting he knew the reason.  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “So why does it bother you what any of them think of me?”  
  
“Because… well, especially when you’re saving their reputations, it would be nice if they gave you some respect.”  
  
Sherlock gave him a somewhat sad smile. “Does it really matter to you?” he wondered.  
  
“Yes! It does!”  
  
Sherlock peered at him closely. “I don’t understand. _I’m_ the one being insulted, but it upsets _you._ ”  
  
“Of course it does!”  
  
“Why?”  
  
John shook his head. “You really don’t understand how much I love you, do you?”  
  
The taller man gave him a very complicated, confused look. “What does one thing have to do with the other?” He looked genuinely baffled.  
  
John loved that expression so much. Sherlock was trying so very hard to actually understand what John was on about. He sighed and took pity on his love. “Don’t worry about it. Shall I make us some dinner?” he asked gently.  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“Why don’t you go change? Get comfortable?” the doctor continued.  
  
The consulting detective shrugged again and headed toward their bedroom. John followed a minute later.  
  
He had timed it perfectly. His brilliant, mad man was naked. He smiled sweetly at the sight.  
  
“What?” the dark-haired man demanded, pausing in his search for comfortable clothing.  
  
“Nothing,” John lied. He spread his arms wide, inviting his maniac in. Sherlock came somewhat reluctantly, but as soon as he felt the doctor’s arms around him, he relaxed and melted into the embrace.  
  
“You drive me mad sometimes,” John admitted. He kissed the ivory skin. Sherlock shivered. “Are you cold?” John inquired solicitously. “Can I warm you up?”  
  
“I thought you were going to make dinner,” the consulting detective commented in amusement.  
  
“Eventually.” He aimed them toward the bed, tumbling happily down on top of his lanky-limbed love. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured into the dark curls.  
  
A large hand palmed him. “I do have a _vague_ idea,” came the smart remark. And then there was blissful silence for a bit as John did his best to snog Sherlock senseless before the hand became… overwhelming.  
  
  
  



	12. Chapter 12

“Hey, you know how I mentioned that I thought Lestrade was a bit ‘off’ yesterday?”  
  
“Yes.” Sherlock was meticulously preparing some slides—something to do with women’s cosmetics. Nothing was exploding or bursting into flame or dissolving into a mass of rot. John, observing from the kitchen door, was delighted.  
  
“You do know why, don’t you?”  
  
“Does it matter?” He wasn’t being biting or condescending. He was actually asking the question.  
  
“It has to do with us, so yes, it does matter,” his mate explained patiently. “You do recall that he was here the other night.”  
  
“Oh. Yes. That.”  
  
“Yes. That. You have to hand it to him—he was pretty calm about the whole thing.”  
  
“Was he?” he replied in his trying-to-sound-careless voice.  
  
“I’d say so. I mean, if I had walked in on two mates doing—well, what we’ve been doing—I would be freaked right the hell out.”  
  
Sherlock pursed his lips in amusement at John’s language, but he sobered quickly. “Does that mean you’re uncomfortable with it, as well?” he demanded.  
  
“At first I was; sure. So were you, weren’t you?” The master chemist didn’t reply, concentrating instead on his slides. John took a few steps closer. “I’m not now, though.” He waited a few beats, watching as the taller man put a drop of something on each of the slides. He felt himself getting tense. He could see that Sherlock was intentionally avoiding looking at him; focusing rather ludicrously closely on his work. He frowned and cleared his throat. “Sherlock?” he attempted.  
  
“What?” Flat; positively screaming casual indifference.  
  
“Are you still?”  
  
“Am I still what?” He added a cover to each slide.  
  
“Are you still uncomfortable with it?”  
  
Sherlock paused, his hand hovering over Slide #7. He glanced up. “Can we talk about this later? I’m a bit busy.”  
  
“So you are,” John realised, almost to himself.  
  
“I am what?” He moved on to Slides #8 and #9.  
  
“You’re still uncomfortable with it.” John crossed his arms over his chest and nodded in affirmation of his own statement.  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He frowned in puzzlement at himself.  
  
“Later, then?” John suggested, releasing him.  
  
*  
  
Later meant several hours later—after dinner and telly and finally cosy in bed with their books. (Is this what our evenings have come to already? John had wondered, but then he recalled that this happened about once a month at most and that the evening before had certainly _not_ included pillows up against the headboard and a chaste “kiss goodnight.”)  
  
But yes, that was where they were that night, and it actually felt quite nice. Sherlock was calm and relaxed and complacent; involved in his book and happy leaving John to his. Some of it had to do with the reaction of salt and vinegar on a particular brand of lipstick, but that was fine, too. John admired and respected Sherlock’s mastery of chemistry. Of all the fields in which he excelled—other than, of course, observation—that was his most brilliant.  
  
John had no idea that he, himself, was at his most brilliant when being shot at—soldiers still talked about “Doc Watson, the fucking maniac.” Because he was now—who was he? John Watson—doctor blogger sharp shooter lover house husband shorter sidekick great mate lousy brother fantastic lover loving daddy…  
  
John put down his book.  
  
He asked the question.  
  
“Must we analyse it?” Sherlock demanded.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart. Come on. I don’t want you getting upset over this.”  
  
…  
  
“You know that I love it. I adore taking care of you.”  
  
…  
  
“I love _all_ of it.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head, staring intently at his book.  
  
“We need to talk about this,” the doctor stated firmly. “Put your book down.” Surprisingly, the lanky man did. “Can we talk about—Uncle Greg?”  
  
“What about him?” Sherlock responded, flat and tense.  
  
“Well, I am still somewhat gobsmacked about it all. You and him. You saved our fucking lives, right there, Sherlock. Coming in with that drawing. And the juice…”  
  
“I didn’t do it deliberately. It just sort of… happened.” Sherlock looked down at his book. His voice petered out and John rubbed his arm and gave him a gentle kiss on his temple.  
  
“I don’t think you missed a beat when he came in. I thought my heart was going to stop.”  
  
“I suppose we could have come up with some story to tell him. I didn’t think of that.”  
  
“That would be some story,” John remarked dryly.   
  
“Mmm. You’re better at that than I am.”  
  
John thought for a bit. “How long have you known Greg… Lestrade?” he finally asked.  
  
“I’m not sure; several years?”  
  
“From what I gather, your first few years of acquaintance were a bit… erm…”  
  
“It wasn’t pretty, John. I admit it. He was working on getting promoted and I was working on…”  
  
John let this sink in. He hadn’t meant for the evening to turn into some sort of “confessional,” but his sweetheart seemed like he was in the mood for sharing. It was so rare. Finally, he said softly, “It’s all right, Sherlock. We all have our bad patches.”  
  
“I mean, I was working on… I was trying to… London. It was all about London, then. I wanted to absorb every inch—every crumb—of this city. I don’t think I had ever felt so alive as I did then—well, until now—delving into the quite frankly nasty side of the city. But it wasn’t just for what you think—that’s a completely different conversation. I should have been working. I suppose. I just couldn’t really wrap my head around that idea—I mean, a regular job with weekends off and departmental meetings and (he shuddered) working with a _team_. Mycroft was disgusted. My parents were worried. But they all knew that that sort of life just wasn’t for me. So they… ah… ‘funded’ me a bit—they didn’t ask about the extra money I was earning (John’s eyes opened wide and he made a large, highlighted, urgent mental note to follow up on that) and made sure I had a working mobile and that was about it.”  
  
“Did you have somewhere to live?” John inquired gently. Sherlock was opening up more than he ever had, and he wanted to move carefully.  
  
“Frankly, no. I’d crash with different people, but it was never a sure thing. Sometimes—. No. Never mind. That’s in the past. Can it stay there?”  
  
“Of course, my love. I didn’t mean to pry. I was more interested in you and Greg. I mean, how you first got to know each other.”  
  
“Oh. Well. It was…” he paused, but John had the feeling that it wasn’t because he was reluctant. It was more that he wanted to explain it exactly right. “It was a crime scene. I had been following crimes in the media for years, of course. Trying to get some sort of—recognition, I suppose. No one believed me about Carl Powers. That set me back a bit.”  
  
“You were just a kid,” John said defensively.  
  
“Anyway,” Sherlock ploughed on, fairly obviously pretending to ignore the doctor’s comment, “the case was fascinating—darts with an hallucinogenic drug that was causing the victims to kill themselves—not purposely—I’m not explaining this well…”  
  
“It was a fascinating and apparently complex case. That part I got,” John noted encouragingly. He did want the details, but Greg was probably a better source. Another mental note.  
  
“And The Yard was just floundering. No clue. No direction. So I showed up at a crime scene—”  
  
“Yeah. How did you know about it?” John remembered earlier allusions to this incident, and had never been able to figure out how, at that time, that Sherlock had been able to show up like that.  
  
“Oh. Well. Homeless network—that bit was already well-established by then.”  
  
“Ah.” So he was part of his own network back then? It explained a great deal, including his incredible generosity.  
  
“So when I heard what was happening, I couldn’t _not_ go. I was determined to be heard. But of course no one actually wanted to _listen_.”  
  
John smiled softly. He could just picture a younger Sherlock—pre-suit; pre-Belstaff—shoving his way past barriers and silly things like police tape; bellowing about the idiots in charge of the investigation and how dense they all were being… oh, Sherlock.  
  
“But there was this one—what was he, then? Detective lieutenant? Constable? No one in charge, that was certain. But he seemed to be interested in what I had to say. And he gave me time, and…” Sherlock frowned now. “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest, what happened after that.”  
  
“Greg’s filled me in a bit—you were brilliant but also stoned off your arse. He listened, and then he took you to his place—he was on his own at that point—and you threw up in his car.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“It’s okay. He’s obviously forgiven you. What happened with the case?”  
  
“Oh. Well, I was correct—obviously—and I just told him what I knew and he did all that—paperwork or whatever they do—and he got the credit for solving the case and got promoted.”  
  
“And what did you get?”  
  
“A shower.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“A hot shower and a fairly decent night’s sleep on his sofa.”  
  
“That’s clearly not all you got. Career-wise, anyway.”  
  
“Well, no.”  
  
John got it. Sherlock was never comfortable talking about feelings or relationships. This was treacherous ground, and although he was fascinated and definitely wanted to know more, this wasn’t his original intent. He really wanted to address the current elephant in the room—“Uncle Greg.”  
  
“So, out of all that, you two started—working together, in a way.”  
  
“Yes. Plus private clients, of course.”  
  
“But you two—.” He stopped, frustrated; wanting to parse his inquiry correctly. “You two—you respected each other.”  
  
Sherlock gave John a sharp look. “If you say so,” he snarled.  
  
“Yeah, you did. He respected your insight and you respected his ability to get things done legally.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I suppose,” he acquiesced.   
  
“So did you two become friends?”  
  
Another sharp look. “Friends? No, not really. Not quite.” He shifted uncomfortably.  
  
“So, a relationship, but not friends?” John capably steered the conversation in his desired direction.  
  
“I suppose. He was more… I can’t really explain it.”  
  
“Maybe a big brother—meaning not your _actual_ big brother, but a… sane one?”  
  
Sherlock chuckled at this jab at Mycroft. “Yes, I think that’s more accurate,” he admitted.  
  
“That sounds nice,” John responded a bit wistfully. It would have been nice if Harry had been a decent big sister instead of the hot mess that she was. Oh, well. _It is what it is,_ he thought to himself. “So did you and he continue that? A brotherly sort of thing, I mean.”  
  
“I don’t really know what older brothers are supposed to be like,” Sherlock admitted.  
  
“So maybe it wasn’t quite like that,” John nodded.  
  
“I have no idea. I… that’s what it’s _about_.” He sounded fairly miserable.  
  
John looked sharply at his love. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean, when we… play, that’s what it’s about—that I don’t have to _know_. I don’t have to explain or solve or understand or _anything_. You just do all that for me. That’s what I really treasure, John. You take away all that responsibility. It’s… such a relief.”  
  
John was stunned into silence.   
  
“So when Lestrade came in, it wasn’t a conscious decision. It was—that I was so comfortable in what you had dressed me in and you would tell me when to eat and what to eat and when to go to bed, and I was so completely happy, and I just couldn’t end it. I didn’t want it to end. I couldn’t bear it. Not right then. So it was…” he paused and swallowed, hard. “It was ‘Uncle Greg,’ or it was all over.”  
  
“Did you know how he’d take it?”  
  
“No. I’m not that good at ‘reading’ people. You know that. I suppose we’re both extremely fortunate that it didn’t end in…” He stopped. He was clearly exhausted about the subject.  
  
“It’s okay, sweetheart. It ended just fine. That’s all that matters right now,” John was quick to affirm.  
  
They sat in silence for a bit. John glanced at his book. Was the conversation over for the evening? That would be all right. As if in response, Sherlock took up and opened his own book. All right, then. Over for the evening. John opened his own book and found where he had left off.  
  
*  
  
“I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just have to ask—” It was the following morning and John was annoyed at himself, but he also felt like if he didn’t ask, he’d go mad not knowing.  
  
“Yes?” His mate, spooning an obscene amount of marmalade onto his toast, sounded resigned.  
  
“What does it feel like? Being Little.”  
  
Sherlock considered this while he chewed and swallowed before replying: “I can’t explain it. I just… I get into a completely different mind set. It feels like—there’s some sort of coating on me, and it just melts away and leaves—less. Not less. Not… not as much. Not as complicated. Not as brittle. Everything is smooth and quiet and safe—” he stopped abruptly, his tone tense.  
  
“Easy. I don’t want you getting upset over this,” John reassured him.  
  
“No. It’s all right. I’m just trying to find the right words. That’s part of it, too. When I’m… Little, it doesn’t matter if I don’t always choose exactly the right words or explain something perfectly. I can make mistakes; change my mind. Not make decisions at all if I don’t want to. I don’t have to know all the answers.”  
  
“Well, that’s why we do it. You don’t always _have_ to know all the answers. You are human, you know.”  
  
Sherlock nodded his head a bit sceptically. He had no idea how to respond verbally to this. John was right, of course, but he found that he was uncomfortable confirming it. Ridiculous, he knew. He was most certainly human. He knew that. He knew that because John Watson, his flatmate colleague doctor blogger defender partner lover Daddy, made him so.  
  
So he was human. John was right. He opened his mouth reluctantly, as if to add something. And then he changed his mind. “I want more coffee,” he said instead.  
  
John smiled sweetly at him and poured him a second cup.  
  



	13. Chapter 13

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.  
  
“Just something I thought looked interesting,” John replied noncommittally. He took the package and deliberately tucked it under his chair. That was “off limits” to Sherlock—at least when John was in the room.  
  
*  
  
It was cold and rainy and there was absolutely nothing on, case-wise. Bored, Sherlock had decided that he needed to update his ash index, and the doctor had been furious to come home from work to a smoke-filled flat.  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock. Some of us have to breathe in here!” he had burst out, dashing across the room to open the windows. “And you can’t tell me that you weren’t smoking some of those,” he continued, indicating the collection of half-consumed cigarettes lining the kitchen table. “Those tidy little labels don’t mean that you didn’t thoroughly enjoy this.”  
  
“I’m an adult, John. If I choose to smoke, it’s my business.”  
  
“Not while you share a flat with me, it isn’t.” The older man stomped into the kitchen.   
  
Sherlock, who was perched on the kitchen counter using his tablet to record something, glared at him and slid down. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “I’m not done yet!”  
  
John sighed. “What else do you have to do?”  
  
“Just photos of those.”  
  
“All right. Get them done and then _you’re_ cleaning this up.” John folded his arms across his chest.  
  
“I was going to!” Sherlock pouted.  
  
“No, you weren’t.”  
  
“Yes, I was!” He hit the counter with his hand.  
  
John looked at him closely. “Are you all right?” he inquired. Sherlock looked a little paler than usual, if that was possible.  
  
“Headache.”  
  
“With all this smoke, I’m not surprised. Take your photos and then I’ll help you clean up, all right?” He had a feeling that Sherlock had made himself a bit ill indulging in the cigarettes, and while he was furious at him, he was also somewhat sympathetic. He couldn’t help it. He knew that Sherlock was bored, and he supposed that he should be at least a bit grateful that the master chemist had decided to take the reins rather than the sharp shooter or the… well. The addict.  
  
Sherlock finished his work quickly, then surprisingly helped John throw everything away and wipe down the kitchen. John finally deemed the room no longer a toxic site. “Thank you,” he said to Sherlock, who nodded rather miserably. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? Do you want something for your head?”  
  
“Leave me alone,” was the reply.  
  
“You can close the windows now,” John suggested quietly. The sitting room was less smoky, but now it was chilly and damp. Instead, Sherlock flopped onto the sofa and curled up, staring in the general direction of the fireplace. “Sherlock, would you please close the windows now?”  
  
“You do it.”  
  
John, who was just about to shout at the lazy man, caught something in his tone. He quickly crossed the room and shut the windows firmly. Then he sat down on the coffee table and put his hand on his flatmate’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Bored.”  
  
“No, it’s more than that. You’ve been busy all day. Why are you still bored?” Sherlock shrugged, deliberately shaking John’s hand off. “Sherlock,” John said patiently. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“I told you. Don’t you _listen_? Bored and I have a headache and you would have no idea if I was busy ‘all day’ because you weren’t here.”  
  
Ah. John did not have the observational skills of the consulting detective, but he was much better at reading emotions. He smiled a bit and leaned closer. “So, it’s because you missed me?” he suggested.  
  
“What? No! I’m just bored. Criminals are always so dull when it rains.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John said quietly, brushing the curls out of the amazing (and somewhat bloodshot from smoke) eyes. “I’m sorry I had to go to work, but you know that I’m a doctor. People need me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No, what?”  
  
“I need you _more._ ”  
  
There it was. John had been waiting for that tone of voice. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “are you angry with Daddy for leaving you alone with nothing to do today?” Sherlock flinched away from the gentle hand at his temple. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He broke John’s gaze and suddenly found something fascinating on the ceiling to observe. “My sweet boy, Daddy’s very sorry for leaving you alone today. What will help cheer you up?”  
  
Sherlock wavered. John could see that he was conflicted; resisting. He leaned even closer and kissed a pale cheek. “Would my baby boy like Daddy to play with him?” Sherlock’s eyes shifted and he looked into his Daddy’s warm, friendly eyes. Daddy waited patiently as he considered things before he said, “I don’t like being away from my baby boy, either. I’m very glad to be home, and do you know what I’d like to do?” Sherlock shook his head. His hand moved toward his face and his fingers brushed the spot where Daddy had kissed him. “I would like to get comfortable, and to get you comfortable, and then I’ve got a surprise for you. What do you think?”  
  
Sherlock slid the tip of his thumb into his mouth and nodded. His Daddy was so clever. He would fix everything.  
  
*  
  
Oh, thank goodness. That had been the right tack. Sherlock had sunk down into his Little self. His face opened up and he relaxed, letting one foot slide off the cushions. He smiled around his thumb and John’s heart melted the way it always did. He kissed Sherlock’s cheek again and patted his hip. “All right. Let’s get comfortable first. Come on, my big boy. Up.” He pulled the taller man to a standing position. “Bedroom,” he commanded, pulling him along. He found cosy at-home clothing for both of them. “Now, let’s get all that off.”  
  
Little Sherlock was delightfully compliant, allowing his Daddy to unbutton and remove his shirt (which was very stinky with smoke, he now realised) and his trousers. “Brrr,” he commented, wrapping his arms around himself.  
  
“All right. One foot at a time, now.” Sherlock smiled as his Daddy quickly redressed him.  
  
“Now you, Daddy.”  
  
Daddy complied, changing quickly, and then he took his hand and led him back out to the sitting room. “Can you sit there for a minute?” he requested, seating him on the sofa. He nodded eagerly. He would be a good boy now that Daddy was there.  
  
But what was Daddy doing? He was kneeling down and pulling something out from under his chair. Sherlock craned his neck, trying to see. Daddy stood up and spun around, holding whatever it was behind his back. He approached, smiling.  
  
“What’s that? Is it for me?”   
  
“It is, and I bet that you’ve seen anything quite like it.”   
  
He held out greedy hands and Daddy laughed at his eagerness. “Here you go.” He handed over a flat, lightweight box covered with colourful pictures. “Can you guess what it is?”  
  
“Don’t guess. Detectives never guess.” Daddy knew that! Sherlock slid the tip of his thumb into his mouth, nibbling it thoughtfully as he examined the glossy box. “Not heavy,” he observed. He shook it. “Not a puzzle—no shaking—I mean, no noise.” He frowned, concentrating. “A game?”  
  
“You’re close.”  
  
“Um… Legos?” No. That wasn’t right. It didn’t have any of the right pictures on it. Instead, it had sort of flowers made with lines and images of those—wheels with teeth--gears. There was a long word across the top of the box, but it didn’t make any sense. He shook his head, thinking.  
  
“You’re right that it’s not a puzzle or a game or building blocks,” Daddy explained, sensing that his boy was getting frustrated. “You might not have seen this before.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head more furiously. “That’s not fair, then!” he pouted.  
  
“You’re right. I’m not being fair, and I really want to get to playing, so why don’t I just show you? You are going to love this.”  
  
*  
  
 _John Watson,_ he congratulated himself, _you are a genius_. The Spirograph had been an immense hit. He hadn’t been entirely sure it would be. He come across a reference to it somewhere, and dimly recalled having a set as a child—with bits missing, of course, as it had been Harry’s first. Despite that, he remembered enjoying creating designs with what was left.  
  
He had been surprised to find that the playset was still being manufactured—and that it was quite reasonably priced. He had ordered it somewhat on a whim, and when he had received it had tucked it away for a rainy day—literally. How perfect.  
  
Sherlock had taken to it immediately. It appealed to his precise, analytical nature. He had John read him the instructions a few times—especially the parts about how many teeth were in each ring and so on, and had absorbed the sample drawings with intense, long looks.  
  
And then he had started. John hadn’t had to help at all. He poured himself a Scotch and relaxed in his chair as his sweet boy quickly mastered the techniques.  
  
“Look, Daddy!” he said excitedly, holding up a neatly-executed design in blue and green.  
  
“That’s fantastic, Sherlock. Which pieces did you use?” Because, after all, this was about mental stimulation. Sherlock had been bored and needing something to focus on rather than the soothing, calming effect that reading or telly provided. The coffee table was filling up with sheets of A4 paper, covered in four to six designs each.  
  
It was interesting, too, that Sherlock didn’t seem perturbed when a pen or wheel slipped, ruining a particular design. He would simply start a new one—sometimes replicating what he had been attempting and sometimes changing it.  
  
“Come watch me, Daddy!” his little boy insisted, patting the floor next to himself.  
  
“All right, my love,” John agreed. He moved to the sofa so that he could watch over Sherlock’s shoulder, and then slid down to the floor to try his hand at creating some patterns himself.  
  
From there they created a new game. John would draw something while Sherlock looked away, and then he had to figure out which rings and wheels his Daddy had used.  
  
“You’re right again, my amazing little detective,” he praised. Was this what Sherlock had been like as a child? he wondered. Using his brilliant mind to its utmost even when playing? Probably. His mother was a mathematical genius, after all, and he had inherited his father’s musical talent, which was related. They and his teachers must have had their hands full…  
  
And then suddenly the thought of Sherlock’s parents brought him swooping back down to reality. God, what would they say if they knew what they were doing?  
  
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” his sweet boy asked, noticing the change in his expression instantly.  
  
“Nothing. Just grown-up things,” he responded soothingly. “Nothing for you to worry about.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. Grown-up things were for daddies, not for little boys. He handed Daddy the blue pen. “Do another!” he shouted happily, and Daddy complied.  
  
  
  



	14. Chapter 14

_God, what a tedious week it’s been_ , John thought as he stretched out next to his lover, who was engrossed in some sort of complex calculations that he was rapidly scrawling in a notebook in pencil. He was wound up and sour because he had had to go undercover for several days, and because of the circumstances had had to leave John behind. He hadn’t even been able to come home at night, and had instead been staying in a less-than-comfortable hotel as part of his story. Neither of them had been happy about it. And now, true to form, as they were reunited, John was pleased and affectionate and Sherlock was—Sherlock.  
  
The doctor had tried everything in his arsenal—congratulating him, flattering him. Asking illuminating and (he hoped) insightful questions about the case. Tempting him with fish and chips (that had, at least, gone over well). Offering a bath (which was refused; instead the detective had stalked off to shower alone in the hopes of getting the product out of his hair).  
  
Finally, John decided to leave well enough alone; his prodding was going to become as irritating as everything else if he wasn’t careful. Instead he suggested that they get comfortable and stretch out and read for a bit. The detective had shrugged and complied as much as he usually did. John had allowed the notebook and had scooped up his current book—a quirky science fiction title that had been published in the late 1970s. It was a bit bizarre, but he found the lead character sympathetic and somehow familiar.  
  
After a few pages, however, John found his attention wandering. He kept glancing over at his mate, who in addition to being stroppy about the case was still not happy with his hair. He kept running his fingers through it. More than once John nearly said something, but then Sherlock would sigh and begin scribbling calculations again.  
  
All right—enough of this now. John absolutely could not keep his eyes on his book. He finally gave up and, letting it drop into his lap, fixed them on his love instead.  
  
Sherlock was such a beautiful man—his features; his intense eyes. Even his ridiculous curls. He was particularly arresting when he was like this—engrossed in his work and completely unconscious of John’s admiring looks.  
  
God, he had missed him. He reached out a tentative hand and laid it on his arm, only to receive a withering glance. He withdrew the offending digits and sighed. Damn. Their brief separation; the proximity of his ivory skin now—John found himself growing rather _anxious._  
  
Sherlock glanced over at him and made an exasperated noise, then attacked his notebook with an admirable fervour. _Oh, for fuck’s sake,_ John nearly growled back. _You want to be like that? Fine._  
  
John had no specific recall of when it had become acceptable—more than acceptable—to wank in front of his lover. It had been fairly early in their relationship; of that he was sure. Sherlock liked—  
  
He liked to _watch._  
  
Ahem.  
  
So would this work? It was worth a try.  
  
He rolled back a bit and let his book slide to the floor. Sherlock glanced over briefly at the noise, then directed himself back to his notes. John shut his eyes and let his hand slide down to his pyjama bottoms and then under the waistband. He paused ever so slightly, and then he took himself in hand.  
  
Rubbing first. Not grasping. Just an almost casual application of flat hand to his half-hard cock.  
  
Mmm. That wasn’t half bad.   
  
All right. Now he wrapped his hand around himself. Oh, yes. That felt very nice.  
  
He sighed… and was almost startled to hear a noise in response. A sound. A breath. Not his but…  
  
He took one himself. A breath.  
  
Stroking a bit more firmly now.  
  
Oh, God. That felt good. He shifted himself a bit.  
  
He felt Sherlock shift a bit in response.  
  
Encouraged, he increased his efforts. The pyjama bottoms were interfering with things now, and he shoved them down with his free hand.  
  
He heard the rustle of paper as the notebook slid to the floor.  
  
He opened his eyes.  
  
Oh, God. Sherlock was _watching._  
  
*  
  
“Let me.”  
  
“Please.”  
  



	15. Chapter 15

“You underestimate me sometimes, John Watson.” He sunk down further in his chair at the tone. He hadn’t felt like that since he was twelve and his mum had found the broken vase behind the garden shed. “How could you possibly think that I wouldn’t figure out that you two have been up to something—odd? I’m not blind.”  
  
“No, Mrs Hudson. Of course you’re not.”  
  
She sighed and shook her head, seating herself in Sherlock’s chair. She tried to continue to look aggravated, but she couldn’t help herself. Her expression softened. “I mean, really, John. Blocks and crayons everywhere? I know you haven’t had any children up here.”  
  
John shook his head.  
  
“I wasn’t sure at first. Not really. I’ve found odder things up here.”  
  
John shrugged in agreement.  
  
“And the cooking—all those little dishes. The plastic ones, I mean. And sometimes I can hear different programmes on. Not exactly the news.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No. I do feel a bit bad about this one. I heard you—reading to him. I didn’t mean to listen. I was just popping up for something, and I suppose you didn’t hear me come up, because you were here in the sitting room and you were reading a story to him.”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“Poor Rabbit was trying to unbounce Tigger.”  
  
John smiled. That was one of their favourites. “It’s so funny. I don’t think he sees how similar he and Tigger are,” he admitted.  
  
“And then there was… well.” She hesitated.  
  
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he remarked. The jig was up so he might as well hear it all.  
  
Her voice dropped nervously. “Oh, John. I don’t even know… there was a… a baby bottle in the sink.”  
  
“Ah,” John grunted. He was usually extremely careful about the bottles. “I don’t suppose you found any dummies,” he said a bit flippantly. “They seem to wander all over, all on their own.”  
  
She paused and took a steadying breath. “John, what’s it all about?”  
  
“Um… yeah.” He considered what he was going to say. How exactly does one explain to one’s landlady that her two adult, male tenants (who yes had abandoned the second bedroom upstairs, finally, to her great delight) played a little game in which one of them was the daddy and the other was… well, whatever he was.  
  
On the plus side, Mrs Hudson loved them—Sherlock in particular—even when having them live there meant a great deal of shouting, gunfire, and the occasional drugs bust. Also on their side was the fact that she was perfectly fine with their relationship—their adult relationship.  
  
So…  
  
“I feed him and bathe him and I read to him and he _plays_ and he actually sleeps if you can believe it and he likes to colour and… he actually lets me take care of him.” He had to stop and take a breath.  
  
They sat in silence for a bit whilst she absorbed this.  
  
“Oh,” she finally responded.  
  
They sat a bit more.  
  
Oddly, he didn’t feel that embarrassed. He wondered why. Their landlady didn’t seem upset. That was certainly part of it. Not horrified or disgusted or shocked or anything negative. In fact, as he raised his eyes to her face, he saw that she was smiling at him gently.  
  
“Oh, John. It’s all right. Sherlock’s been needing to be taken care of like that for a very long time.”  
  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

Sometimes, Sherlock was his detective-self, deducing and showing off and explaining why everyone else was an idiot:  
  
I can’t believe I have to explain this again  
  
Do you actually listen to yourselves?  
  
It’s so _obvious_  
  
  
  
And sometimes Sherlock was all tightly-wound, easily-overstimulated, possibly-should-be-tested-again flatmate:  
  
Shut up shut up shut up—I can’t think  
  
Must it be so _bright_ in here?  
  
Head hurts  
  
  
  
And then Sherlock was just Sherlock, and those were the best bits:  
  
It was so dull here without you  
  
I got you Twiglets  
  
Watch out for the eyeballs  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter 17

Is this what they meant about a feeling singing in one’s veins? It must be. Sherlock Holmes grinned a bit wickedly as he peeked around the corner. This had been a wonderfully enthralling case. The suspect was—any moment now—going to incriminate himself by returning—rather predictably and just the tiny bit boringly—to the scene of the crime to retrieve a rather damning piece of evidence the existence of which Lestrade had “accidentally” leaked to the media. Technically Sherlock didn’t need to be there—he had already done his “bit”—but truth be told he wanted to meet the criminal face to face.  
  
He knew that complimenting him was a Bit Not Good, so he had left John home.  
  
No, not home. Something something… John had been saying something. It had sounded dull so Sherlock had tuned him out.  
  
Oh, right. That was it. Visit to Harry—in hospital for pancreatitis. Shame, that. He understood that it was quite painful and although Sherlock Holmes was not known for his compassion he did see that this was inconveniencing both John and him, so it was a shame.  
  
He hoped that John would be home, waiting for him—  
  
Oh, there he was!  
  
He caught the signal from the team posted across the street from him; they were headed in.  
  
He waited exactly three minutes before striding around the corner and joining them in the shop.  
  
He glanced to his side and frowned; had he left John behind again?  
  
That was definitely A Bit Not Good; he had been reliably informed—well, if by “reliably informed” one meant “shouted at by a short ex-army captain who was just the tiniest bit more adorable than usual when he was outraged.”  
  
No, he hadn’t left John behind. He checked.  
  
Where was John?  
  
Oh, right! Hospital. Sister.  
  
Criminal caught dead to rights trying to erase the security footage that showed him, quite clearly, using illegally-obtained overrides to get into the bank accounts of several rather fantastically successful businesses. He had been smart about that, at least—he siphoned off only small amounts from numerous large accounts to diminish the possibility of being detected. He was even tech-savvy enough to obliterate his actual location in a tangle of world-wide URLs, and he was hitting international companies, so in effect he could have been anywhere.  
  
The irony of him being detected by a crooked Revenue and Customs employee in the act of siphoning funds from one of the same companies was just too glorious.  
  
It was Sherlock who saw the double hit. Two birds; one stone. Nicely done.  
  
And then their undoing: bragging about it to each other.  
  
Idiots.  
  
The Revenue employee had been rather boringly easy to catch. He was, after all, a government employee. They got him on a smoke break.  
  
Sherlock had rather easily identified the other one, but something-or-other about evidence—what was it? He hadn’t really been paying attention. He made it anyway—the physical link to the suspect.  
  
Oh don’t challenge me. How dull. It was so obvious.  
  
John once remarked that he’d bruise his eyebrows if he kept rolling his eyes like that.  
  
That had made him laugh. He would have to remember to tell his parents that one.  
  
He knew that Mummy and Dad wanted to meet John. They were perfectly fine with it all, of course. Well, “all” as in everything they knew. They might have figured out a bit more, but not much, and they were just happy that he was happy. He supposed…  
  
He supposed he loved them.  
  
He certainly felt about them a certain way that he didn’t feel about anyone else—except maybe Mrs Hudson.  
  
Was that it, then?  
  
Was what he felt for Mummy and Dad and Mrs H love?  
  
It didn’t feel the way he had thought. It certainly didn’t feel the same way that he felt about John. And according to John, that was most certainly love, and if John said so, it was so…  
  
John had tried to explain it, once—why both feelings were called “love” and in some ways were very much alike and in some ways were so very different. For example, occasionally (well, more than occasionally—fairly often, to be honest) Mummy and Dad and Mrs H drove him absolutely bonkers, particularly when they fussed. “When was the last time you ate?” “Have you slept at all this week?” “Don’t even try it, young man. I know what you’ve been up to.” “Please, Sherlock. Please. No more of this.” (That last one, from Mummy the last time he was in hospital for OD’ing, did make him feel rather awful. He really, truly didn’t do it to make anyone upset or cross or sad.)  
  
John drove him bonkers when he fussed as well—and about pretty much the same things but sometimes about burning holes in the kitchen table—but for some reason it just felt different.  
  
Was it because he was a doctor?  
  
Was it because he was an ex-army captain?  
  
Was it because he was a wounded war hero (and John denied it; said he experienced no pain at all since Sherlock had cured his psychosomatic limp but his shoulder _did_ bother him, especially when it was cold, and Sherlock liked to rub it slowly and carefully and try to warm it and relax all the tight, stressed scar tissue with some nice lotion because John should not have to suffer like that—ever)?  
  
No, it wasn’t.  
  
it was…   
  
it was John…  
  
it was  
  
well  
  
it was _just_  
  
It just _was_  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
The voice brought him rather shockingly back to reality. He gave the suspect one contemptuous, dagger-like glare (and he would deny to his dying breath that he practised that glare in the mirror), hit four quick keystrokes on the keyboard, revealing all, and swept out onto the street before a single person could ask him a thing.  
  
Home.  
  
He wanted to be home.  
  
He dug his mobile out of his deep pocket and texted as he strode rapidly down the street, ignoring the slight protests of outrage from the people he nearly knocked down.  
  
Home  
  
John  
  
Was John home yet?  
  
Oh yes he was  
  
Fantastic  
  
“Taxi!”  
  
He glared at the person next to him on the pavement who had apparently been, for quite a while and clearly ineffectively, trying to hail a cab.  
  
Not his problem  
  
Home  
  
Home home home was lovely lovely lovely   
  
Safe quiet peaceful all his things his dressing gowns his microscope his violin his books no reporters no intruders (well sometimes) no idiots  
  
Ever  
  
John was not an idiot.  
  
Yes, he did occasionally call him one. That was not right. He knew he was being wicked when he did that.  
  
John was not observant in the way that Sherlock was. No one (oh except for Mycroft and he could feel the bruises forming on his eyebrows and he smiled a bit wickedly) was.  
  
John was so much _more._  
  
John always knew what to say to the terrified housekeeper. The cheated-on wife. The thwarted lover. The brave teacher. The cuckolded accountant. He knew how to deal with injuries and hysterics and train schedules and holiday decorating and grocery shopping and that thing that he did—in that room—that cooking room. With food and everything.  
  
Sherlock had not the slightest idea how to deal with any of those things, so he left those to his blogger.  
  
What had he done before John?  
  
He honestly couldn’t remember.  
  
Didn’t want to remember  
  
That was all right. That was fine. John didn’t mind. Not one bit. He would hum when he made not-scary pasta with cream sauce and chat while he folded the laundry and giggle—yes he did—when they were making jokes about corpses and smile that amazing, wonderful, all-forgiving smile when he  
  
when they  
  
and it was sometimes chilly with no clothes on but John knew how to fix that as well  
  
*  
  
He loved John so very, very much.  
  
*  
  
“John?”  
  
“You’re home? Did you get him?”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“Let me help you with your… Sherlock! What are you doing?”  
  
…  
  
Oh…  
  
Oh my  
  
Oh my love  
  
  
  
Yes  
  



	18. Chapter 18

“Don’t beat yourself up so much, Sherlock. You tracked down the gang that was after John Openshaw and his family.”  
  
“Tracked them down, yes, but to what end? They’re all dead—the gang and all the Openshaws as well. Why the hell didn’t he come to me sooner? Three days, John! He wasted three days dithering with the police, and what did they do? Sent _one_ officer to guard the _house_ , not the man. Idiots!” Sherlock snarled and paced the worn carpet of the flat.  
  
“Sherlock! You just took down a huge and violent drug-trafficking ring based on _gum wrappers!_ ”  
  
Sherlock waved his hand impatiently, halting his pacing to stare moodily out the window.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said sternly. “You’re still brilliant. Only you could have figured out that each gum wrapper signified a week’s warning that they were going to strike; only you would have thought to draw them out by sending their own markers back to them.”  
  
Oh, that was the wrong thing to say, John Watson.  
  
“Shut up,” the thin man snapped. John frowned and reached out a hand. “Don’t touch me!” he shouted, thrusting the hand away.  
  
“All right. Calm down,” John responded, his eyes wide. He put his hands up. “What’s the matter?”  
  
In reply, the detective shoved rudely past him and strode quickly down the hall, slamming the bedroom door shut behind himself.  
  
*  
  
Only you  
  
 _Only you_  
  
Why was it always _only him_?  
  
Most of the time he was delighted that it was _only him_ —he was the only one brilliant enough not only to see the broken shoelace; to hear the dripping water; to detect the slightest whiff of smoke but to tease out the details; the reasons; the _significance_ of those things. He didn’t deny it—he “got off” on it, as Sally Donovan so crudely put it—but not the way she meant. Seeing the unseen; untangling the knots; unravelling the puzzle—that was what he lived for. What sent his heart rate up. What put a blush on his pale cheeks. He could actually _feel_ it—an incredible sense of victory that would rise up from somewhere in the pit of his stomach and spread to his limbs and then finally his head and he would experience actual joy.  
  
Joy at having solved a bank robbery. A jewel theft. A kidnapping. A brutal murder.  
  
Sherlock Holmes knew that this made him a very odd man.  
  
It wasn’t as if he wished anyone ill. Bank robberies and jewel thefts and inheritance swindles he didn’t even really consider—those were all just about money, after all. Greed was a great if slightly boring motivator.  
  
Kidnappings. Well, yes. Those were different. John got upset about those, particularly when they involved children, and he allowed his blogger his sentiment.  
  
And then there were murders. Bodies? Sure. Weapons? Of course. Most of them were brutal and idiotic and spontaneous. Rare were the well-thought-out and executed plans; the deliberate subterfuge that had to be skilfully and delicately teased out from the evidence. He liked those best, of course. They best highlighted his brilliance.  
  
They rarely involved the death of someone he had met. Someone he had tried to protect.  
  
“John Openshaw,” he whispered in the quiet bedroom. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have sent you off on your own. I was so stupid, and now you’re dead, and it’s over some idiotic argument that you didn’t even start.”  
  
He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his head falling down until his chin hit his chest. He felt—  
  
defeated  
  
and horribly, horribly, terribly responsible because it was “only him” who could have prevented the tragedy  
  
and he had failed.  
  
  
  
It made him feel so heavy  
  
And there was an odd pain in his chest  
  
  
  
He tipped over onto his side and curled up  
  
That eased the pain somewhat   
  
He pulled the duvet down and buried his face in the pillow  
  
It was John’s pillow and it smelled like him—wool and toast and cheap shampoo  
  
He breathed it in deeply, shutting his eyes  
  
That helped a bit  
  
  
  
But the man was still dead. He had been there in their flat, in their sitting room—on “The Chair”—the one they used for clients. He had been there and talking and asking and describing and explaining and seeking help—  
  
but he wouldn’t speak to anyone ever again  
  
because Sherlock had failed him.  
  
  
  
He whimpered and his hand slid up toward his mouth. He covered it with his fingers—silence, you idiot.  
  
  
  
He tried to take a deep breath but it somehow got caught in his chest and came out all wrong and he felt so exposed—  
  
Incompetent  
  
Heartless  
  
Sherlock slid the tip of his thumb into his mouth and sucked on it to stop the awful sounds that wanted to burst from his chest; from his throat. His eyes, still closed, burned.  
  
And John opened the door.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock? Oh, God. What’s wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?” The doctor immediately bent over his mate, trying to see his face. He put a hand gently on his shoulder and tried to roll him onto his back so he could take a look.  
  
“Get out!”  
  
“Why?” John asked softly. “I just want to see if you’re all right.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter!” he growled. “I don’t deserve to be all right.”  
  
John frowned down at him. “Of course you deserve it. Why wouldn’t you?”  
  
Oh, that made it so much worse.  
  
“No no no no!” Sherlock rolled viciously away, flat on his stomach, burying his face in the pillows. “I was stupid and an idiot and I didn’t think and I didn’t put him first and I sent him out on his own and now he’s dead!”  
  
And saying that made it even more real and even more horrid and it finally sent him over the edge. He hated the hot tears; the tightness in his chest. The ragged sounds coming from his throat. But he couldn’t stop them. He felt like he could never stop them.  
  
He felt the bed dip as John climbed onto it. “Oh, God. Sherlock. Calm down. It’s all right. Easy. Take a breath. Come on.”  
  
The words couldn’t penetrate the ice cold that was wrapped around his heart. It was too much to bear. Too hard. Too immense. Too heavy.  
  
“What can I do to help?” Warm, strong arm over him; familiar hand at his temple. Stroking his hair. “What do you need?”  
  
“I…” he couldn’t catch his breath. What did he need? He knew what he wanted, but he didn’t dare ask for any of those things because he didn’t deserve them. And that thought made him sob even harder.  
  
“You can do this. Tell me what you need.” Oh, that gentle voice. Gentle voice and strong arms and warm chest that held him—surrounded him—and kept all the scary things away. _That_ was what he needed.  
  
He took as deep a breath as he could—it hitched and caught and made him cough—but then he finally got it. He finally got it out. What he needed. What he didn’t deserve—not one bit—but what he desperately wanted and needed.   
  
“Daddy,” he choked. “Need Daddy.”  
  
And then Daddy was there and he was holding him in his strong arms and whispering to him and rubbing his back and then Daddy wanted him to roll over; to sit up. He tried but the bad feeling in his chest and his head and his throat and his eyes wouldn’t let him. He felt trapped; like he was lost in a jungle and it was hot and horrid and he was surrounded by heavy, clinging vines. They were choking him and he couldn’t move or hear or see—  
  
“Oh, baby boy. I’m so sorry. You got really frightened this time, didn’t you? You got very frightened and upset about what happened to that man.”  
  
Daddy rolled him over and pulled him up. He couldn’t look at him; couldn’t open his eyes. “I… didn’t mean… I didn’t want him to… to get hurt,” he tried to explain.  
  
“No, of course you didn’t,” Daddy murmured. He wrapped his arms around him—his arms felt so safe—and he buried his face on his shoulder and sobbed. “Okay. It’s okay. Shh. I’m here now. Daddy’s here, ‘Lock. I know you’re upset. It’s okay.”  
  
Sherlock cried for a long time while Daddy held him and stroked his hair and his back and rocked him.  
  
Rocked him.  
  
And that was so nice—being rocked—because the sobs were all jumbly and horrid and they frightened him because he never knew when one was coming, and the rocking was all regular and even and gentle and predictable and he liked that. He liked how it felt. He thought that maybe if he breathed the same as the rocking, it would help.  
  
Daddy rocked him for a long time.  
  
And finally the rocking slowed and stopped but his breathing was still nice and even and he thought that maybe he could open his eyes. Seeing Daddy would be nice. So he pulled his head away from Daddy’s shoulder and he opened his eyes—just a little; they felt really yucky—and there was his Daddy smiling his special, soft, gentle smile at him.  
  
“There you are,” he said in his special Daddy voice. “There’s my sweet boy.”  
  
But he wasn’t his sweet boy, was he? He had done something very, very bad. No. He was a very bad boy and daddies don’t cuddle bad boys. He tried to push him away. He tried to explain. “No. Daddies don’t love bad boys.”  
  
Daddy frowned. “What are you saying? Of course daddies love bad boys. Sometimes they get angry with them, but they never stop loving them.”  
  
“But I… I was bad and Daddy shouldn’t hug bad boys…” The pain in his chest was back.  
  
Daddy reached out and pulled him into a very tight hug. “You weren’t bad, Sherlock. You didn’t mean for that man to get hurt. It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“But you said that I was the _only one_ who could fix it, so it _is_ my fault!”  
  
Daddy was suddenly very still. He drew back so he could see his boy’s face. “Oh, Sherlock! I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Not at all. Oh, baby.” He gathered him tightly into his arms again and rocked, and rocked, and rocked.  
  
Sherlock had no idea how long they stayed like that. As long as Daddy rocked him. That was good. His chest didn’t hurt so much, but his nose was stuffy and his eyes were scratchy and his face was hot and his clothing was too tight...  
  
“Okay, my love. Do you know what I need to do for my sweet boy?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. When he didn’t know something, Daddy didn’t get cross. He didn’t now.  
  
“I need to find you some tissues, and run you a bath, yeah?”  
  
That sounded brilliant and he nodded eagerly. He didn’t like the way it felt when Daddy got off the bed, though—it felt cold and lonesome and awful and—  
  
Daddy gave him his bee. “Here you go, sweetheart. You hold onto your bee and Daddy will be right back. All right?”  
  
He buried his face in his bee’s soft body. Yes, that would be all right—if Daddy hurried.  
  
*  
  
Daddy came back! Sherlock watched him blearily. His eyelids felt all droopy and fat—like he couldn’t have opened them all the way if he had tried.  
  
Tissues first. “Blow,” Daddy instructed. That was better.  
  
Then Daddy had led him into the bathroom and took off his horrid, tight clothes and he had a nice, calm bath with his boats and Daddy didn’t even try to wash his hair. And then into the bedroom to be dried off and into night-time pants and pyjamas.  
  
“Is that nicer, my sweet boy?” Daddy asked gently, patting the now-cushioned bum. Sherlock nodded, sucking gently on the tip of his thumb. He led him back out to the sitting room. He laid a blanket out on the carpet and deposited his boy on it. “Now, how about your blocks?” he asked, taking them out. Sherlock sat on the blanket cross-legged and began to organise them. Daddy watched silently for a few minutes before moving quietly into the kitchen. Sherlock heard him clattering about but didn’t bother looking up; as long as he knew where Daddy was, he felt safe and calm.  
  
*  
  
John came back into the sitting room. Sherlock was at his feet, carefully, with great concentration, arranging his blocks. What was he doing? John looked closely. Oh, for God’s sake. They were element blocks, yes, but was he really--? Yes, yes he was. His Little boy was recreating part of the periodic table of elements on their floor.   
  
He watched him for a minute. Sherlock’s colouring was hectic; his eyes swollen. He was clearly exhausted; his hand moved in slow motion as he methodically placed the blocks one at a time. Sometimes he would go to set a block in place and then, murmuring to himself, shake his head and put it back down. And occasionally his chin would dip down to his chest and his reddened eyes would shut for a second.  
  
“Sweetheart,” John said softly. “I think that someone needs a nap.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head emphatically, refusing to look up. No! Naps were sometimes scary because he would think about all the bad things and the bad people and they were chasing him and he was falling—  
  
“Oh, baby boy. You really need to take a nap.”  
  
He shook his head furiously. No! Why didn’t Daddy understand? He drew his hand back, intending to throw the block he was holding at Daddy.  
  
Instead, his hand hit the metal frame of his chair—hard.  
  
He absolutely howled in outrage. He was done. Completely done. He began throwing the blocks as hard and fast as he could.  
  
And Daddy came to the rescue.  
  
Kneeling down on the blanket with him, Daddy gently laid his hand on his arm. He stopped throwing the blocks.  
  
His hand hurt and he whimpered and held it up for kisses. Daddy looked at it carefully and made tut-tut sounds before kissing it. He pulled it back and cradled it in his other hand. Daddy brushed a curl off his forehead, briefly brushing his wrist against it.  
  
“Can you sit for a minute without me? I want to get something for you.”   
  
He worked very hard at not crying when Daddy went away. And then Daddy was back again and he had—what was that? Daddy sat on the blanket and leaned back against his chair. He pulled a pillow off it and put it down on the blanket and patted it gently.  
  
‘Lock laid his head on it—why was his head so heavy?—and closed his eyes and he felt the bottle against his lips and he opened his mouth and Daddy slipped it in. Cool, lovely water. Mmm. He started to suck and the cool water felt so nice as it slid down his hot, sore throat. He had his blanket and his bottle and his Daddy and…  
  
“My poor sweetheart,” John whispered, looking down at his exhausted boy. At first he sucked eagerly, but as his thirst was quenched he began to slow down. Then he would stop for a second. Start again. Stop. Two or three sucks. Stop. One and… as he drifted off, his mouth relaxed and John pulled the bottle out and put it on the floor. Stroked the finally-lax cheek. “Shh, sweet boy. Time for sleep.”  
  
A kip, a simple supper, and a bedtime story. Yes. That is what his baby boy needed from his Daddy.  
  
John draped another blanket over the inert form, then crept into the kitchen and made himself a sandwich and cup of tea as quietly as he could. Sherlock was out cold. The doctor figured he had about an hour.  
  
The intensity of Sherlock’s emotions—his reaction to the case—weren’t alarming and overwhelming just for the detective. John had been genuinely worried about his lover’s meltdown. He could do himself actual damage in a mood like that—it most certainly would not be the first time. So John was grateful when Sherlock had responded to being held; being rocked in the way that he did.  
  
It hadn’t gotten past the doctor that Sherlock hadn’t spoken a word since his outburst. That he had played with his boats in the bath a bit but seemed more content to just lie in the water and let Daddy wash him. That the warm water had relaxed him enough that Daddy didn’t need to help him with the toilet right away. That was all right. That was fine.  
  
He had lain still, staring at the ceiling, as Daddy dressed him, and followed him complacently back to the sitting room, his hand lax in the doctor’s. The way he had gotten right down on to the floor, happily settling on his blanket. How eager he was with his bottle.  
  
Very, very Little.  
  
And his Daddy was going to indulge him.  
  
*  
  
He poked through the cupboards and inventoried the fridge. All right, he had what he needed. He dug through the toy box (which they kept cleverly disguised as a lamp table with one of Mrs Hudson’s longer covers over it) and put what he had chosen on his chair. Sherlock stirred a bit.  
  
Down the hall and into the bedroom. He pulled back the bedclothes and slid the waterproof pad under the sheet on Sherlock’s side. He sighed a bit at this, but it was better than the alternative, and he strongly suspected it was a wise precaution to take.  
  
That done, he scooted back to his boy, who was very sleepily pushing at the blanket over him. He crouched down. “Did you have a nice nap, my sweetheart?” he asked softly. Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned. That was expected; he was often stroppy immediately after a nap, but less cranky than if he hadn’t taken one (this applied to Big Sherlock as well).  
  
John was ready for his boy, and he settled next to him on the blanket while he rubbed his eyes carelessly. He leaned against the chair and offered him a bottle of juice. He drank slowly and lost interest about halfway through, releasing the bottle into his daddy’s hand. He rolled onto his stomach and frowned at his blocks, shoving them away with one hand.  
  
“Hey. That’s not very nice,” John warned. “How about this instead?”  
  
Sherlock eyed the offered object he had put on his chair in preparation suspiciously. John wanted to laugh at the sceptical glare. “Shall I show you?” he suggested. His baby boy shook his head vehemently whilst simultaneously grabbing at the new toy. “Hey!” he warned. “What have I said about grabby hands?” Oh, the pout! “You want to do it yourself?” A nod. “All right. Here you go.” He switched it on, causing it to play a short tune, and handed it over.  
  
Sherlock accepted it more politely that time. John had handed it to him right-side-up, and was fascinated to see that the first thing Sherlock did was to flip it over and examine the back, running his fingers over the sound holes in the casing there. Oh, right. Textures. He must have felt the holes and was curious about them. He flipped it face up again, but this time he ran his fingers curiously around the edge.  
  
The toy was shaped very much like a real mobile, but instead of apps on a touch screen, there were brightly coloured button-like images with numbers. Sherlock poked one cautiously and was both startled and delighted when the phone first spoke the number and then played a short song.  
  
John pulled himself up, smiling a bit sadly as his sweet boy began to systematically push the buttons, tuning him out completely. The toy was rated for six to thirty-six months. If that was the level of engagement Sherlock was finding fulfilling—it was just a bit frightening how very Little he was. He wondered how long he would need before he would be willing to grow up.  
  
*  
  
After a while—longer than John thought possible—Sherlock’s attention wandered. He stretched out on his stomach, reached for his scattered blocks and, with those and the play phone, began to build. It didn’t look as if he was building anything specific; just stacking the blocks randomly and pushing them around. At one point he balanced the phone on a few blocks, then knocked it down and continued arranging and rearranging the blocks.  
  
*  
  
He liked the mobile. It looked like Daddy’s but made much nicer noises. There was a slide-y thing at the bottom that changed the noises. That was fun and he experimented with it for a while.  
  
Then that got boring so he decided to build with his blocks, and the mobile looked like it would make a good bridge. That was fun, too.  
  
Daddy was clattering around in the kitchen again, and he glanced up when he came into the sitting room. He was holding a small bowl (it was his favourite and had Winnie-the-Pooh on it) and a spoon. “I’ve got something for you, sweetheart,” he said, smiling his warm, gentle Daddy smile. He pushed himself upright, a small frown on his face. What did Daddy have? Daddy sat in his chair and Sherlock leaned on his knees, curious. The bowl was tipped slightly so he could see its contents. It was soft and smelled nice. He stuck a finger into the contents and tasted it hesitantly. He smiled. It was very gentle and sweet and lovely.  
  
“Do you like that, then?” Daddy asked. “Come let Daddy feed you.”  
  
He spooned the banana porridge that he had made with warm milk and a touch of honey slowly and gently into his boy’s mouth. “Such a good boy,” he murmured. “That’s right. Get all that down.”  
  
He ate it all up and smiled at his Daddy.  
  
“Now, I think it’s time for bed, yeah? Come on, love.” Sherlock took his Daddy’s hand and allowed himself to be led down the hallway. Daddy gave him his toothbrush and he obediently used it. He liked the way it made his mouth feel—his teeth were happy.  
  
And then Daddy helped him pull down his pants and sit on the toilet and that was boring but it made Daddy happy when he was done.  
  
And now he was cosy in their big bed and Daddy was there, too, in his pyjamas, and he curled up with his thumb in his mouth until Daddy gently pressed a dummy in. And then Daddy opened the book he had and began to read it to him:  
  
“They’re changing guard at Buckingham Palace—  
  
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.  
  
Alice is marrying one of the guard.  
  
‘A soldier’s life is terrible hard,’  
  
Says Alice.”   
  
  
  
Daddy kissed his precious boy as he settled down and slept.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milne, A. A. “Buckingham Palace.” When We Were Very Young. © 1924 by E.P. Dutton & Co.


	19. Chapter 19

“Can I ask you a question?” Sherlock requested.  
  
“Sure,” John replied. “Must be important. You don’t usually ask permission.”  
  
They were lying in bed together. Sherlock was propped up against the headboard and John was using his stomach as a pillow. A sheet was tangled around Sherlock’s legs, and the duvet around John’s, and that was the only thing either one was wearing.  
  
“I thought I’d try it out.”  
  
John shivered as one long finger gently ran down and back up his arm. “All right. Ask away.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes were shut so he could concentrate on the feeling of John’s skin against his. “What does it feel like to be… my Daddy?”  
  
“Why are you asking?” John wondered, capturing the hand and kissing the palm gently.  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes. “In order to find out,” he stated truthfully.   
  
“Are you worried about it?” John ran his tongue thoughtfully along the underside of the thin wrist.  
  
“No...”  
  
“By ‘no,’ do you mean ‘yes?’”  
  
“Perhaps?”  
  
“There’s no need to be, you know.” Sherlock shivered as John nibbled the tiniest bit on the thin skin stretched over blue veins.  
  
Sherlock pulled his hand away gently and began to stroke John’s shoulder and bare chest. “I suppose I just don’t see the appeal,” he reflected.  
  
“In being someone’s parent?” John clarified. He grasped Sherlock’s hand again and held it close.  
  
“Yes.” Sherlock’s deep voice sounded a bit troubled.  
  
John shifted and looked up at his face. “What brought this on? Was it that last case?”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure,” the detective admitted.  
  
“Let’s just say it was, then. You were being really brutal with yourself, you know. You sort of frightened me a bit.”  
  
“I find that hard to believe,” Sherlock hummed. “You being afraid of anything.” He began to run his fingers through the short hair.  
  
“Well, I was. I’ve never seen you so upset about a case. Was that the first time you ever lost a client?” Sherlock didn’t reply, but his hand paused in its stroking. “It was, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. Let’s get back to your question.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay. What does it feel like to be your Daddy? Well, it feels fantastic.”  
  
“Why? I can be awful.”  
  
“Yes, you can, but you can also be sweet and wonderful and sort of adorable.” Sherlock made a sort of embarrassed harrumphing noise and John smiled. “I mean that.”  
  
“But what do you get out of it? Especially when I’m being awful,” the dark-haired man pursued.  
  
John thought about it. “I get to take care of you,” he finally replied.  
  
“You get pleasure out of taking care of me?” Sherlock sounded genuinely puzzled.  
  
“Well, yeah.”  
  
“This is going nowhere,” Sherlock complained. John looked up at his face. He was pouting. What had he just been saying? Adorable.  
  
“You want to know why I like taking care of you,” John articulated. “Especially when you’re Little. How it’s different—or if it’s different—from when I take care of Occasionally Idiotic Consulting Detective.”  
  
“Yes. That.” Sherlock nodded and tapped John’s shoulder with one finger twice, echoing the cadence of his words. Now maybe he’d get an answer.  
  
“Okay. Yeah. It is different. I don’t mean just because of the… erm… bottles and toys and things. Those are just… props? I don’t know what to call them—you know what I mean, though.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay, it’s different because I actually get to take care of you.”  
  
“I’m still not understanding the difference between you stitching me up and you reading to me.”  
  
John noticed that Sherlock had chosen one of the most innocuous examples of their special time together; he in fact read to Big Sherlock as well, and Sherlock occasionally read to him… hold that thought, he told himself. Come back to it.   
  
“A lot of it is the same, in terms of what you need. The difference is that when I’m your Daddy, I actually accomplish things. I mean, I actually get you to eat. I get you to sleep. I can hold you and rock you when you’re upset. When you’re big, you fight me over every little thing I try to do to help you. When you’re Little, you let me do all that stuff and more.  
  
“I like actually taking care of you. I like feeding you and bathing you. I like dressing you and reading to you and tucking you into bed. It makes me feel like I’m making you safe. Giving you something that you need. Is this making any sense?”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“See, when I’m John-the-Flatmate trying to get you to eat, or John-the-Doctor stitching you up, or John-the-Firefighter putting out your latest experiment, I… well, sometimes you piss me off. You’re so resistant to help. But when I’m your Daddy, you _want_ my help.”  
  
“I do,” he replied quietly.  
  
John captured and fervently kissed the palm of his hand, then raised and turned himself so he was on his knees, facing his madman. “Now,” he said, “I do love Little Sherlock with all my heart, but right now I’m rather fancying another go with the adult version.”  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock teased, glancing down. He grinned wickedly. “I _see_. I think I can help take care of that.”  
  
*  
  
“When did you first know you were gay?” This time John was propped up against the headboard and Sherlock was stretched across the mattress on his back, his feet on the pillows and his head hanging over the foot of the bed. He rolled his head up, a look of surprise on his face. “What?” John laughed. “‘Round Two: After an absolutely fantastic hand job, John asks Sherlock a deep, thought-provoking question,’” he narrated.  
  
“Oh, all right.” He sat up and moved his feet so his pale legs were on either side of John’s slighter darker ones.  
  
“So? When was it?”  
  
“I don’t remember exactly how old I was. Mycroft was already done with uni. Twelve? I didn’t really think about those things—not like the other boys. They were always going on about ‘sex’ even though half of them didn’t even know what it was. Talking about… breasts. That was a frequent topic of conversation.”  
  
“Conversations you didn’t join, I take it?”  
  
“Good Lord, no. But then… it was a dream. I had a dream. About one of the other boys. I only remember one bit of it now.”  
  
“Was that bit naughty?”  
  
“Locker room. Bench. Naked. Touching. Yes, I think naughty would be the appropriate word.”  
  
John shifted his hips a bit. “So your first real dream about sex was about another boy?”  
  
“Yes. After that, I began to be a bit more aware of what… attracted me. Who, I mean.”  
  
“Did you ever… I mean, with another boy. Back then.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Did you want to?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What happened when you were older—I mean, I know how you felt about William. We don’t have to talk about him. Was there ever anyone else?” John deliberately left Victor out of the equation.  
  
“No.”  
  
John heard the sadness in his voice and he ran his fingers through the tangled curls. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you upset.”  
  
“No. It’s all right. Long time ago.”  
  
“Your parents didn’t have a problem with it, did they?”  
  
“No. None at all. I think they were more accepting of my predilection than I was.”  
  
“That’s nice. I mean, poor Harry. She went through absolute hell.”  
  
“So having a gay daughter wasn’t okay?”  
  
“Not even a bit,” John admitted.  
  
“So what about you?”  
  
“What about me?”  
  
“John, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you’re… erm…”  
  
“Sherlock-sexual?” the doctor laughed.  
  
“Is that it? You never had a thing for one of your mates? All those beefy boys in the locker room after football?”  
  
“Rugby. Nope. I was one of those ‘always thinking about girls’ breasts’ lads, I’m afraid.”  
  
“How disappointing,” Sherlock teased. He wiggled his long toes under John’s bum.  
  
“Oi! Your feet are freezing!” the older man complained.  
  
“That’s why I want them under there,” Sherlock explained. “Obviously.”  
  
“You git,” John smiled, reaching down and rubbing one icy shin.  
  
“So your attraction to me must have been a surprise.”  
  
“Not to anyone _but_ me.”  
  
“True. You were fairly oblivious. All those protests: ‘I’m not gay. We’re not a couple. I’m not jealous.’”  
  
“I really didn’t see it then. Just in retrospect,” John replied honestly. “At the time I was still sort of in shock.”  
  
“And I wanted to be your blanket,” Sherlock supplied slyly.  
  
“Too bad our first date involved so many police officers.” They both laughed.  
  
“I admit, I was a bit disappointed that you didn’t realise about me right away. They weren’t exactly subtle hints, you know.” Sherlock leaned back and wiggled his toes.  
  
“What? Oh, ‘no girlfriend.’ It was hardly on my list of approved ‘getting to know you’ conversations—right at first, I mean.” John blushed slightly, recalling that incredibly awkward conversation at Angelo’s.  
  
“What drives me mad is that Mycroft saw it right away. He’s always right, even about feelings,” Sherlock grumbled.  
  
“Well, I’m glad he was right this time.” John smiled warmly.  
  
“I am, too.”  
  
“Care to show me how glad you are?” The smile was now a bit wicked.  
  
For an answer, Sherlock suddenly slid his feet out from under John’s bum, shifted, and, propping himself on all fours, gave his captain a soft, wet kiss. “I would love to,” he grinned back.  
  
  
  



	20. Chapter 20

The dark-haired man wiggled a bit. “Naked!” was his comment. “Like naked, Daddy.”  
  
The doctor smiled. “And why is that?”  
  
“Clothes’re boring,” he explained, huffing in comical exasperation.  
  
“You’re a little nudist, is why,” Daddy commented. “Now get over here and put your pants on.”  
  
“Nope!” Sherlock scurried to the far side of the bed.   
  
John sighed, more amused than aggravated. “Sherlock, you come over here and let me get these pants on you.”  
  
“No!”  
  
John waited a few beats, then used his trump card. “You know that Uncle Greg is coming for dinner, right?” Sherlock paused. No, he hadn’t known that. Had he? “And although he loves you dearly, he does not like naked Sherlock, does he?”  
  
No, he didn’t. Uncle Greg was funny about that. It wasn’t like he’d never seen him naked; and there had been plenty of times when he was—well—“not himself” that he had helped him use the toilet, but he had made it clear that he was not fond of him wandering around without at least pants. Fair enough.  
  
John was sometimes challenged about dressing Sherlock when he was Little. Generally, he would just let him loll around in t-shirts and pants; pyjama bottoms. It was funny, though—considering how dearly Big Sherlock loved his many dressing gowns, Little Sherlock didn’t seem to care for them. He wasn’t that involved in “dramatic swooshing,” of course, so he had no need for them, nor for the propriety of being decent whilst lounging at home. But the first time they were going to have company, John was puzzled. It seemed ridiculous to dress the man in trousers and buttoned shirt when he was going to be sitting on the floor colouring or making a mess with his dinner. But it felt equally odd to have him in his ultra-casual clothes—but what to dress him in when they knew that someone (even if “someone” was only ever Greg, Mrs Hudson, or Mycroft) was going to be there?  
  
They had finally compromised, ironically as the result of a case. Sherlock had gotten some casual clothing—jeans, hoodies, t-shirts with amusing chemistry/nerd jokes on them, trainers, and the like—to go undercover as a computer programmer. These seemed to be much more appropriate for lying on one’s stomach on the floor in front of the fireplace, building with blocks, so John had appropriated them for that purpose. Little Sherlock was (surprisingly) compliant with his Daddy and allowed himself to be dressed in this manner. In the flat he refused to wear socks or shoes of any sort, of course, but otherwise willingly let Daddy slide jeans up and zip his hoodie.   
  
Sherlock’s favourite t-shirt was thorium-indium-potassium (Th-In-K) in black and John’s was germanium-nickel-uranium-sulphur (Ge-Ni-U-S) in dark blue, but both of those needed washing. There were tons more available on the website Sherlock had discovered (dangerous thing internet shopping was) and John had absolutely forbidden Cobalt-Calcium-Iodine-Neon (Co-Ca-I-Ne). So now John dressed his little boy in black jeans, a tight khaki t-shirt with H-Ac-Kr spelled out in images from the periodic table of elements (Hydrogen-actinium-krypton Sherlock recited thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the symbols on his chest), and a solid black hoodie. Sherlock was impatient and stamping his feet as Daddy fidgeted with zips and all that. He had thought of something he wanted to make for Uncle Greg and he was eager to start it.  
  
“Hey! Behave yourself!” Daddy warned, shaking a finger at his little boy. He was a bit nervous. Greg had been amazingly fine with Little Sherlock after his accidental discovery, but it still felt a bit odd to _know_ that they were going to have an evening of crayons and cut-up pasta. It wasn’t as if they had planned it ahead of time; John had invited Greg to dinner the day before—“whenever you get off work”—and then told Sherlock, who had nodded and gone on with whatever he was doing with the slides and microscope; bleach and blood and furniture polish? But that night had been a rough one, with Sherlock wound up and unable to sleep, and John had discovered him still up, exhausted and pale, when he had risen.  
  
One refused breakfast, two shouting matches, and three thrown books later, it was nearly noon when John gave up on dealing with Big Sherlock. He had swooped down on the cantankerous man, whispering love and cuddles and promises of a new toy into the sensitive ear until Sherlock had given up on being—well, Sherlock—and had melted into his Daddy’s arms, fussing and wanting his new toy and juice and one of his special programmes on the telly.  
  
Sherlock would never admit it, but cases involving older women being threatened or injured upset him as much as kidnappings of small children upset John. And the latest had been tough. The older woman involved resembled Sherlock’s mum far more than comfort would allow.  
  
So now—  
  
“Do you want this, Little One?” John asked teasingly, holding the package behind his back.  
  
“Yes, Daddy! Want it now!” Sherlock whined.  
  
“Here you go.”  
  
Oh, John would never get bored of this. He absolutely adored getting his sweet boy new toys. It was such a challenge—finding something stimulating and appealing but also safe. This particular one—well, he just couldn’t wait.  
  
Sherlock undid the packaging (big or little, Sherlock had nimble fingers) and gasped in delight and awe. He clutched it to his chest. “Oh, Daddy. I love it!” he chortled, his bad mood completely forgotten.  
  
It was a bear.  
  
It was a learn-to-dress bear with a button, zip, shoelace tie, and hook-and-loop closure.  
  
It was a PIRATE learn-to-dress bear, complete with an eye patch and rakish red head scarf.  
  
Oh, Daddy had outdone himself on this one.  
  
Little Sherlock adored his Daddy and his Daddy adored him. And it was fine.  
  
*  
  
Soon Little Sherlock was on the floor in front of the fireplace, busily doing and undoing the button and zip on his pirate bear (who is NOT Pooh because Pooh would never be a pirate, Sherlock had informed Daddy in No Uncertain Terms). He didn’t like the sound of hook-and-loop and the tying of laces was far too complicated to contemplate on his own, but later Daddy had helped him, and after a few hours and a few programmes and Daddy sitting with Sherlock and patiently showing him how to tie shoelaces over and over, Daddy was trying to get Little Sherlock decent enough for Uncle Greg to come over for some takeaway.  
  
*  
  
“Hey, Greg! Come on in!” John welcomed. Mrs Hudson had already been up to tidy up a bit and to coo over Sherlock’s new toy, so the flat wasn’t horrible and Sherlock was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace talking earnestly to his new bear (who still didn’t have a name; Uncle Greg had been tagged for that honour whether he liked it or not).  
  
“Hey, John. Thanks for the invite…. Oh, hello, ‘Lock.” Greg immediately (and how immediately ingratiated him to John forever) slid into “uncle” mode. He knew the drill by now.  
  
“Hi! Look what Daddy got me!” Sherlock enthused.  
  
“Tell me all about it,” he replied, handing his coat to John and walking over to the fireplace promptly, all agog at the stuffed animal. The glance and subtle shake of his head that he had given John with his coat said it all—the older woman had, despite his division’s and Sherlock’s and eventually the doctors’ best efforts, not made it. Sherlock himself had found her and had been (not unsurprisingly to those who knew him best) gentle and encouraging as he untangled her from the electrical flex that had been twisted tightly into her paper-thin skin. Forty-eight hours of that had proven to be too much, however, and Greg had absolutely no intention that evening of telling the dark-haired man who was currently patting the floor next to himself, inviting Uncle Greg to sit with him.  
  
“Come down here!” Sherlock commanded.  
  
Greg glanced at John and shrugged. He sank down to the floor, his hands out to examine the new prize.  
  
Maybe wait two or three days to tell Sherlock.  
  
If at all.  
  
“What’ve you got there?” he asked affectionately. Because he really, truly, honestly had no problem with this. Sherlock was sober; he was engaged. He was clean and well-fed. He was home without a single body part in sight. As far as he was concerned, John Watson was a genius.  
  
“It’s a pirate! And he’s got a button and a zip!” Sherlock explained excitedly. Greg glanced at John, who nodded. It was fine. It was more than fine. DI Greg Lestrade would so much rather sit on the floor in front of the fireplace at 221B and hold an earnest discussion with someone about pirate eye patches than find him stoned or high or frantic or bleeding—any time.  
  
“I’m going to phone in an order for Chinese in a bit, all right?” John offered, sitting in his chair and smiling affectionately at Sherlock.  
  
“Yeah, that’s fine. Oh, that’s great, Sherlock! Can you do the button? Show me.”  
  
And the three men went through their evening in a way that no one else would understand but that they understood—and needed.  
  
*  
  
Uncle Greg got the privilege of putting Sherlock to bed. He didn’t object at all. He had smiled as John had fed Sherlock cut-up bits of whatever-it-was that Sherlock hadn’t found objectionable in their order. He had gotten his fill, eating-wise, and normal adult mate conversation about the latest football match with John—while Sherlock was on the floor in front of the coffee table, busily colouring “just for Uncle Greg.”  
  
The resultant image wasn’t, to be honest, appropriate for anyone else BUT John, Greg, and Sherlock, but was accepted with alacrity all the same.  
  
And would probably end up in a conviction, so there it was.  
  
They had eventually moved to the chairs in front of the fire, with a tired but satisfied Sherlock seated on the floor at their feet, rubbing his eyes.  
  
“Hey, love,” John murmured, “I think it’s time for bed.”  
  
“No! Not tired!” informed the very-much-too-tired large boy. He thrust a book at Uncle Greg severely. “Read this,” he commanded.  
  
“I will read that to you once you’re changed and in bed,” Greg offered.  
  
“’kay,” Sherlock agreed sullenly. _Thank you,_ John mouthed as he guided his boy to the bathroom.  
  
“He’s all yours,” the doctor declared not long after. “Teeth brushed, in pyjamas, and in bed.”  
  
“Sure,” Greg agreed. He had glanced at the book Sherlock had requested. _The Jungle Book_. There was a bookmark (was that a Rizla paper?) at a chapter entitled, “Tiger! Tiger!” The language was rich and full and nothing like the modern picture books he had seen recently.  
  
“He’ll probably fall asleep pretty quickly; you’ve only got to read a few pages. I don’t think he slept at all last night.”  
  
“It was that bloody case, wasn’t it?” the DI replied in mortification. “I’m sorry I brought him in on that. I know how anything with older women in danger upsets him.”  
  
“It does, but he’s got to learn to deal with it better. I’d much rather spend an hour reading to him than an hour shouting and dodging books.”  
  
“All right. _Jungle Book_ it—”  
  
“Uncle Greg!”  
  
“Oh, his highness beckons,” Greg grinned as he strode down the hallway. “I’m right here, Sherlock,” he admonished as he entered the room. John glanced affectionately down the hall before starting to tidy up the kitchen.  
  
Fifteen minutes and Sherlock was out cold. Greg had left the night light on and the door open before he rejoined John.  
  
“Thank you,” the doctor offered.  
  
“Think he’ll sleep all night?”  
  
John snorted. “Not a chance.” He glanced at his watch. “But it’s usually pretty simple getting him back to sleep when he’s like this.”  
  
“Well, I wish you luck with that. I’m going to head home. Thanks for dinner.”  
  
They said their good nights and Greg headed out. John turned off the lights and got himself ready for bed. Finally, he crept into the bedroom. Sherlock was curled up with his bee, breathing slowly and evenly. His face was relaxed; unlined. No scowl or frown. John slid under the bedclothes. He kissed his sweet boy gently on the forehead. “Good night, baby boy,” he murmured. “Sleep tight.”  
  



	21. Chapter 21

“What’s the matter?”  
  
…  
  
“Do you… okay, no dinner.”  
  
…  
  
“I’ll take it away, all right?”  
  
  
  
“Sherlock! You didn’t have to do that! I was going to take it away. Come clean that up.”  
  
…  
  
“What the FUCK is wrong with you?!” John spat out.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock positively snarled.  
  
“Tell you what?” John snapped back.  
  
“She died.”  
  
John frowned. “Who died?”  
  
“That… that woman. That older woman. Last week.”  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock. We just—”  
  
“We who?” Sherlock’s scowl was a bit frightening. “Was this a conspiracy?”  
  
“No. No! Greg and I just decided that you didn’t need to know.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why? Because of this—exactly this. We know some cases are harder on you than others, and based on your behaviour immediately after you found her—”  
  
“What about my behaviour?”  
  
“Sherlock, you fell apart. And it’s all right. If some things are too hard for you—”  
  
“I did not fall apart!”  
  
“Not entirely, no,” John replied slowly. “I wouldn’t let you. You know that.”  
  
Sherlock’s expression changed. Closed down. John Watson, professional waiter, waited. “It was hard on you, too,” he finally murmured. “And Lestrade. I’m not completely unaware of feelings, John.”  
  
“No, I know that you’re not. You have a hard time processing some of them sometimes, though—”  
  
His partner didn’t give him a chance to finish, as with a swirl of silk dressing gown he stalked angrily down the hall and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.  
  
All right. Let him cool off for a bit. John cleaned up the kitchen—including the food sprayed over the counter from the plate that Sherlock had thrown—before settling down in the sitting room. He opened his laptop and began to update his blog. There were several comments about that last case that he didn’t care for. _Of course he cares about the victims_ , he typed rather viciously. _He doesn’t show it in public, but yes, it does affect him. He’s human, after all, despite what some people think._ He hit his enter button a bit more energetically than was actually necessary.  
  
He logged out and closed his laptop. It was time. He headed down the hallway with trepidation. He opened the door to their bedroom slowly, not sure if he was going to be hit by a book.  
  
No. Sherlock was lying on the bed, his back to the door. John curled up behind him, feeling awful for leaving him to drown in his feelings for so long. “Sherlock?” he murmured. “Sweetheart?”  
  
“Go away.”  
  
“Nope. Not going anywhere.”  
  
“I’m not going to be good company.”  
  
“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock.” John rubbed the bony shoulder and then wrapped one strong arm around the thin man. “I love you.” The thin man didn’t say anything, but he also didn’t resist as his partner peppered kisses on the back of his head and along his temple. “Do you want to talk about it or do you want to not think about it for a bit?” he asked, brushing the shell of Sherlock’s ear with his lips.  
  
“I don’t know.” At least Sherlock had finally learned that it was all right not to know.  
  
“Okay,” John responded easily. “How about…” and his kisses were now directed on that lovely ear, “How about we not talk at all for a bit?”  
  
“What do you… mean?” The pause had coincided with a particularly warm and wet and affectionate kiss behind his ear. He squirmed the tiniest bit.  
  
“This is what I mean,” John responded evenly. And then he proceeded. Because the skin was soft and pale and fragrant in a way that he couldn’t even put into words and all he wanted to do was to kiss and kiss and inhale and taste…  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock exhaled.  
  
Okay. More tasting was in order. John was more than happy to supply that. And maybe add a bit of…  
  
“Oh!”  
  
“Like that?” he asked unnecessarily.  
  
“Mmm….”  
  
The firm hand that had been ensconced on the bony shoulder now slid—down.  
  
“What…” Sherlock protested.  
  
“You protest far too much,” John murmured. “Just relax. I’ve got you. It’s all right.”  
  
The hand slid further down. Easy, peasy to slip under the pyjama bottoms. Don’t even bother with niceties. Or foreplay.  
  
“No…” the objection was weak and, to be honest, _noticeably_ ridiculous.  
  
“Yes,” John contradicted.  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock breathed.  
  
“It’s all right to let your brain shut down for a bit,” he encouraged, knowing that this was what he was fighting. “Nothing earth-shattering is going to happen in the next twenty minutes.”  
  
“How do you know?” was the sighed, almost-ready-to-capitulate response.  
  
“Doctor. They send out memos.”  
  
And Sherlock—  
  
Sherlock _laughed_.  
  
And John took that as encouragement and tripled (at least) his efforts. It was his right hand, but he was versatile. And Sherlock was amenable. And so he gently but eagerly touched and stroked and…  
  
Sherlock rolled over.  
  
And then there were kisses and hands and clothes being flung and skin and more kisses and some delectable tasting and chests pressed together and hips pressed together and John was so very happy…  
  
“God, John,” Sherlock moaned, thrusting with his bony hips.  
  
“Yeah, right there,” John agreed wholeheartedly, pressing back.  
  
One of Sherlock’s large hands easily grasped both of them. “Do you want… lubrication?” he asked, his voice breathy.  
  
“I want… oh God, that feels so amazing. No, I don’t want you to stop. I’m already close.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t respond except to increase the tempo. He was grinning and his eyes were flashing and he was sweating and the thrusts were getting shorter and harder and John’s eyes were dark and lovely and he was heaving great breaths in rhythm with their thrusts.  
  
And then there were stars and planets and—  
  
  
  



	22. Chapter 22

The Thumb.  
  
That was another thing that surprised Sherlock about himself. About his Little self, that is.  
  
He knew that when he was an infant, he had not taken to a dummy, or to sucking his thumb. Mummy had mentioned it at some point. Nothing right or wrong about it; just the way he was. Mycroft had definitely been a thumb-sucker—they had actually had a tough time breaking him of the habit, but that was the social convention, so Mummy and Daddy both had patiently and gently dissuaded him from it until he finally stopped.  
  
So why did Sherlock, who had never been in the habit of sucking on anything, do it now?  
  
He had no idea except that it felt right.  
  
He had, for many years, been aware that when he was upset, he often touched his own lips, or pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, or even slipped a knuckle into it—usually when alone in bed or wherever he had landed. It felt safe somehow, was the only way he could describe it. He just wanted it—wanted his hand very close to his face; wanted the gentle pressure of something soft and smooth on his slightly-open lips.  
  
He never did it in front of anyone, of course.  
  
And then there was John. Daddy. And somehow, the urge had become much stronger than it ever had before, but it felt all right to do it now.  
  
**  
  
 _He had been nursing a headache. They had just endured a fairly horrid media blitz—microphones and cameras being thrust in his face; repellent reporters demanding answers to both relevant and entirely irrelevant questions about the case (which had not gone terribly well—the kidnapper had been discovered but it hadn’t been very tidy) and about him and his personal life and their personal lives and their personal life together and—_  
  
 _“ENOUGH!” he had finally roared, thrusting through the crowd, blinded by the lights and overwhelmed by the noise and the data pouring in._  
  
 _John had hurried after him, simultaneously issuing apologies and warnings to the throng. He had finally caught up to and stepped in front of the detective, taking command of the situation. “Please, let us through. No, that’s enough now. No more questions. Please let him through.” He had pushed through, dragging the taller man behind him by one hand. “Let us through, I said!” he had finally shouted. He had glanced back at his mate, who had shut his eyes and was allowing John to lead._  
  
 _Finally. They finally breached the crowd; Mrs Hudson, who had been watching from the doorway, threw the door open and let them in hurriedly, slamming it shut and bolting it as fast as she could._  
  
 _“Goodness!” she exclaimed in outrage. “They’re being vultures today. Why not get him upstairs? I’ve already called someone about the crowd.”_  
  
 _John nodded and ushered Sherlock, his eyes still shut, up the stairs. He let him slump onto the sofa, his coat still on, while he pulled the curtains shut. Sherlock needed dark and quiet._  
  
 _Their mobiles went off simultaneously._  
  
 _“Shit!” John had spat out, hurriedly shutting off first his and then the detective’s, who groaned as the doctor slid his hand into the jacket pocket to retrieve the annoying object._  
  
 _“Coat off,” he murmured, helping him to slide it off. “Something for your head?” he asked softly, receiving a slight nod in acceptance. He brought him tablets and water and finally encouraged him to move to the bedroom, pulling the curtains closed in there as well. He got him out of his fastidious suit and into something soft and shapeless._  
  
 _There. Finally. Dark and quiet; comfortable on the bed._  
  
 _“My poor sweetheart,” he murmured, sliding off his shoes so he could move quietly through the flat. “Just lie down for a while.”_  
  
 _“Mmph,” the pale man agreed, burrowing gratefully into the pillows._  
  
 _“Do you want company or do you want me to leave you alone for a bit? Read to you, maybe?”_  
  
 _“Sleep now. Read later?” he mumbled, his face pressed into his pillow, breathing in the lovely clean smell of freshly-laundered sheets._  
  
 _“Of course. Call if you need me, all right?”_  
  
 _Sherlock didn’t reply. John crept out, leaving the door partially open. He sighed as he headed back down the hallway to the kitchen. He didn’t like the way Sherlock looked. He was tired—that was to be expected, having not slept for three days—but he seemed more exhausted and overwhelmed than usual, and the crowd of reporters had made things much, much worse._  
  
 _He would figure out something very comforting and gentle for supper—or whatever meal it was. As usual, the detective had eschewed eating during the case, but made sure that John ate. The same went for sleeping; he’d sent John to bed, then spent the night pacing or plunging back out into the darkness, delving into the parts of London that most people avoided._  
  
 _John sat quietly in front of his laptop and began to write up the case._  
  
*  
  
 _Nowhere. He was getting nowhere. It had been a tricky case—sensitive, involving some well-known people, a great deal of money, and some horrific hints of child abuse that he didn’t want to think about. Maybe he wouldn’t write this one up. No, if he didn’t, the damned reporters would just make up their own stories, and that always turned out badly. So, yes, he really had to tell the truth of it all (without revealing anything about the young victim, of course), but maybe he needed a break._  
  
 _He glanced at his watch. Time to check on Sherlock. He padded down the hallway and peeked into the darkened room._  
  
 _Sherlock was on his side in the middle of the bed, facing away from the door. He hadn’t initially wanted any covers on, but John thought he looked a bit chilled now; curled up for warmth. He entered the room as quietly as he could, intent on putting something over him. He eased open a drawer as quietly as he could and pulled out Sherlock’s special blanket, and with infinite care draped it over the sleeping figure._  
  
 _As he did so, he peered at his face—was it relaxed in sleep, or was it knotted in misery?_  
  
 _Sherlock was still; his breathing even and slow. His features were slack._  
  
 _And he had his thumb in his mouth._  
  
 _Well, John corrected himself silently, not entirely in his mouth. But the tip of his right thumb was most definitely resting on his lower lip, and as John watched the lips pursed slightly and he…_  
  
 _Yes, he did._  
  
 _Sherlock gave the tip of his thumb a few soft sucks. John watched in fascination as the lips (and God didn’t John love to stare at that beautiful mouth?) gently came together. He could see them moving slightly._  
  
 _“Oh, my baby boy,” John muttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise what you needed.”_  
  
 _John considered for a moment. He had actually been prepared for this for a while—since that very first shopping expedition, in fact—but as he gradually introduced those things into their lives—the blankets, the baby wash—he still hadn’t found quite the right moment for one particular item. Now was the time._  
  
 _He opened the cupboard and dug down into the back of his side. Sherlock was aware of the items secreted away there and it might have surprised some people that he had left them unmolested. John knew better. Part of their agreement—part of the purpose for it—was that it was Daddy who was in charge of all of their special things. Daddy figured out what his boy needed and wanted; he purchased the new toys and dishes and food items and introduced them when he thought it was the right time._  
  
 _So now it was time for something new._  
  
 _He pulled what he was seeking out and brought it to the kitchen to give it a quick wash. He crept back in and around to the far side of the bed. He crouched down so he was eye level with Sherlock, who opened his eyes slightly._  
  
 _“Mmm?” he mumbled around his thumb._  
  
 _“Got something for you,” Daddy said quietly. Gently, he moved the hand aside and carefully just rested the dummy on the soft lower lip. Sherlock frowned. “It’s all right, my sweet boy.”_  
  
 _Sherlock’s eyes shut again as he gave the soft teat a gentle suck. Just one, and then he allowed his mouth to go lax, the dummy resting on his lower lip. That seemed to be all that he needed. His brow smoothed out and he sighed the tiniest bit._  
  
 _John he bent and kissed his forehead. “I love you, my sweet boy,” he whispered. “Sleep well.”_  
  
**  
  
“What is that…?” John wondered, reaching under his seat cushion. There was a lump.  
  
It was a yellow dummy with black stripes and a smiling bee on it.  
  
They really did wander all over, all by themselves.   
  
  
  



	23. Chapter 23

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are in SO MUCH trouble!’  
  
Uh oh. Daddy was shouting. That was what he had been hoping to avoid. He should have realised that that had been inevitable as soon as Mrs Hudson had started shouting.  
  
He slid the pinking shears under the sofa with his foot.  
  
*  
  
“Honestly, Greg, I nearly exploded. I didn’t know whether to laugh at him or smack him.” John was laughing now.  
  
“Don’t keep all the fun to yourself. Tell me!” Greg’s eyes twinkled and he was grinning.  
  
“Okay. It started with him sneaking a cigarette.”  
  
“Patches not working?”  
  
“Not if he doesn’t put them on, no. Anyway, he was standing by the front window—he had it open for the smoke, right? And right then Mrs Hudson popped in—you know how she just appears sometimes?”  
  
Greg nodded, not pointing out that he sometimes did the same thing.  
  
“And she’s been really getting on him about the smoking. So,” John snickered, “the great idiot drops the lit cigarette—not out the open window, like any sane person might—but behind the bloody curtain.”  
  
“She’s got those—what is it?”  
  
“There’s the long curtains and then those lacy things under them.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“And he’s talking to her for a few minutes before he notices that the lace curtain has caught fire.”  
  
Greg snorted.  
  
“So he rushes her out—remind me to add to his punishment for being rude—and manages to put out the fire by dumping a container of the nearest liquid on it, which is _of course_ not water. No, of course not. This is Sherlock and he’s been working on something so he ran into the kitchen and grabbed the first thing that came to hand.”  
  
Greg put his elbows on the table and leaned his chin into his cupped hands. “Which was…?” he prodded.  
  
“Bleach.”  
  
“Oh, for the love of… are you joking?” the silver-haired man goggled. “He poured _bleach_ on the curtains.”  
  
“Yep.” John took a long drink, trying not to giggle as the ale went down.   
  
“That wasn’t all, was it?”  
  
“Oh, God, no. It gets better. Or worse, depending on your point of view. So now he’s got a burned curtain and a bleached curtain, and it’s not like anyone could miss it. You can see it as soon as you come into the flat.”  
  
Greg signalled the waitress and ordered double shots for both of them.  
  
“So, what the hell did he do? Tear them down?”  
  
“Nope. Even better.” John’s eyes were watering from laughing. “You know what pinking shears are?”  
  
“Sure. My first wife used to sew—wait. He didn’t.”  
  
“He did.”  
  
“Are you fucking joking?” Greg ran his hand through his hair and nodded his thanks as their shots arrived along with refills on their beer.  
  
“I wish I were. But no. He had pinking shears—Mrs Hudson’s—remind me to add in for not returning something he’d borrowed— _and_ borrowing without permission—anyway, he had them. And he used them. Trimmed both sets of curtains. With pinking shears. Hacked a good two feet off on each of the windows to make them even.”  
  
Greg nearly snorted his beer through his nose. “Didn’t he think that you would maybe—I don’t know— _notice_?”  
  
“Of course not. According to him, remember, everyone else sees but they don’t observe. He figured as long as the two windows matched neither Mrs Hudson nor I would notice the difference.”  
  
Several people in the pub turned to stare as both men gave up and howled.  
  
Greg was the first to recover. He wiped his eyes and coughed. “So. Punishment time?” he managed to gasp.  
  
“Oh, yeah. Do you have any paper?” John wheezed. Greg gave him his notebook and pen. “All right. Let’s see.” The doctor made a list:  
  
Smoking  
  
Starting a fire in the flat that was not in the fireplace  
  
Not cleaning up an experiment properly  
  
Borrowing something without asking  
  
Not returning the borrowed item  
  
“Being rude to Mrs H,” Greg reminded him. He nodded his thanks.  
  
Being rude   
  
Damaging property  
  
They both surveyed the list. “Wow,” Greg finally said. “This is going to add up quickly.”  
  
John took another piece of paper and started a second list:  
  
Pay for new curtains  
  
No special bedtime for one (he went back and crossed out one) two weeks  
  
He paused, tapping the pen on the table, thinking. Greg tipped his head to read the list. “No special bedtime?” he remarked.  
  
“Yeah. No bath or story or nightlight or…” he paused. “You know,” he finished a bit sheepishly.  
  
“It’s okay, John. You know I’m fine with this. I’ve seen the difference in him.”  
  
John ran his hand over his face. He knew that Greg was truly fine with it, and actually more comfortable hearing about Little Sherlock than their more “adult” activities, but sometimes it was hard. He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he relented. “No bottle of warm milk.”  
  
“So how are you going to get him to sleep?” the DI asked pragmatically.  
  
“I’m not. It’s going to be up to him, and if he wants to stay up all night and be miserable the next day, he’s brought it on himself.” Then he thought about that. If Sherlock was miserable, he tended to share, and John would be miserable as well.  
  
He sighed and crossed out the entire line.  
  
“You’re not going to just have him pay for new curtains, are you?” Greg demanded sceptically.  
  
“Nope. It’s time to pull out the big guns.” John flashed him a “do you dare me?” look.  
  
“No. You’re not…? Really?”  
  
“Oh, yes I am.” And then he added to the list with a flourish:  
  
Attend a formal function at Mycroft’s  
  
  
  



	24. Chapter 24

“I paid for the curtains, and I apologised to Mrs Hudson. Why on earth do I have to do this?”  
  
“Do you really want me to go over this again? Because I would be happy to.” John strode angrily over to the desk and pulled The List out from a pile of papers. Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
“I am aware of my actions. I just don’t see why doing a bit of redecorating is leading to me sitting around for hours, listening to my pompous arse of a brother and his incredibly boring associates blather on about the prime minister or whatever it is they talk about at these things.”  
  
John held the list out in front of himself, facing his flatmate. He didn’t need to see it any longer, he had read it so many times. “One. Smoking. Two. Setting fire to the curtains. Three…”  
  
“Enough!” he shouted. He threw down the book he had been reading and stormed down the hall, slamming the bedroom door behind himself.  
  
“It’s not like I’m going to enjoy it, either, you git,” John muttered, carefully tucking The List safely away.  
  
*  
  
Oh, it was worse than John had anticipated. He had been to some of Mycroft’s formal functions before and had always found them…well, to be honest… boring. Mind-numbingly boring. Dull beyond measure. Which was exactly why he had chosen this as a punishment and why he was now kicking himself for thinking of it.  
  
Because of course he had to go with him. That was the only way to ensure that he’d actually show up. So he had put on his good suit, allowed Sherlock to tie his tie (considering the fact that the man didn’t wear ties he was awfully good at tying them), shoved his feet into his stiff dress shoes, and was now sitting on the sofa waiting for Sherlock to finish dressing.  
  
“Are you ready yet?” he shouted. “The car will be here any minute.”  
  
“Are you really making me go through this?” Sherlock slouched into the sitting room with the most petulant look he could manage on his face.  
  
“You’ve only got yourself to blame,” the ex-army captain pointed out, folding his arms across his chest. “But you do look very handsome.”  
  
Because he did. Even with the grimace of despair he was sporting, Sherlock was a lovely thing to look at. His suit, which was black (I’m in mourning for my lost freedom, he had moaned) was impeccably tailored. It showed off everything that John found appealing about his lover: The broad shoulders. Trim stomach. Marvellous arse— _Stop that, John_ , he told himself sternly. This is supposed to be a punishment, not some sort of odd, well-tailored foreplay.  
  
That didn’t prevent him from continuing his visual inspection. Everything was perfect—the suit, the socks. The shoes (he had found out how much they cost and nearly had a heart attack). The purple shirt. Oh, shit, Sherlock, why did you have to wear the purple shirt?  
  
It was the dark purple of an aubergine; the contrast with his ivory skin was striking, to say the least. And the buttons. Oh, those buttons. Straining; stretched. If it was any tighter the buttons would give up and go flying across the room and John wondered if later he could make them do that— _STOP THAT THIS INSTANT!_  
  
He cleared his throat. “All set?” he inquired politely.  
  
“Mmph,” was the disgruntled reply.  
  
Oh, it was going to be an interesting evening.  
  
*  
  
Step one: Sherlock was dressed. Step two: Sherlock was in the car. Step three: Sherlock was still in the car, after a brief struggle at a traffic light stop, during which he attempted to escape.  
  
Step four: Sherlock was getting out of the car at their actual destination.  
  
Steps five and six: In the house; coats checked. Sherlock nearly whimpered as his beloved Belstaff was whisked away.  
  
Step seven:  
  
“Well, hello, Brother Mine,” Mycroft hissed at them. “And Doctor Watson. How nice of you to join us tonight.”  
  
“I’m leaving at nine o’clock no matter what,” Sherlock snarled through clenched teeth.  
  
“Is that acceptable, Doctor?”  
  
“That should be sufficient, yeah,” John nodded. “It looks very nice.”  
  
“Then allow me to introduce you to a few people. Lord Blanche, this is my brother, Sherlock, and his…”  
  
“Doctor John Watson,” the short man interjected, putting out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”  
  
After a stimulating (in John’s mind) or excruciating (in Sherlock’s) conversation with Lord Blanche, Sherlock finally broke away, stating loudly, “Oh, there’s Lady Abbington. I’ve been meaning to discuss her new programme for the homeless. Will you please excuse me?” John trailed after him.  
  
“Why do you do that?” John stopped short as Sherlock suddenly spun around and snarled the question at him.  
  
“Why do I do what?” the doctor asked tiredly, taking a step back so Sherlock wasn’t quite so close.  
  
“Why did you interrupt Mycroft? Are you ashamed of our relationship?”  
  
“What? No! Sherlock, no. That’s not it. It’s just… well, in some settings it’s nobody’s business, that’s all.”  
  
“You aren’t ashamed of me?”  
  
John looked at the dark-haired man in bewilderment. “Ashamed of you? Never. Where did you get that idea?”  
  
“I want a word.”  
  
“A word?”  
  
“Yes. I want a word to describe us. Partners? Sounds like a law firm. Lovers? Some doomed, melodramatic couple. I’m not your husband and you’re not mine.”  
  
“Sherlock, this is perhaps not the best time to—”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes! And you must be the famous blogger, John Watson! Oh, I am thrilled to meet you.”  
  
Sherlock shot daggers at John before he composed his face into a frighteningly excellent parody of a famous detective happy to meet a fan.  
  
*  
  
Dodging the passed hors d'oeuvres was like working through a minefield:  
  
miniature Swiss cheeseburgers with tomato chilli jam  
  
confit of pork belly with a sweetcorn and sweet red pepper puree  
  
goat cheese smothered in sautéed mushrooms surrounded by pastry puff  
  
  
  
How in heavens’ name had they managed to pick a veritable laundry list of Sherlock’s “no” foods?  
  
John gripped Sherlock’s elbow tightly to prevent him from bolting.  
  
Oh, thank God. There were drinks. Excellent. “Have some wine, Sherlock,” he hissed, directing him.  
  
Surprisingly, Sherlock obeyed, and what he decided was an “acceptable” merlot actually pacified him for a bit. John passed up the opportunity to sample the “designer” drink of the evening (it looked dreadfully sweet and fruity) for a nice few fingers of Scotch. Hell, it was on Mycroft’s tab. He might as well enjoy.  
  
A few people introduced themselves and John was gradually able to release his grip on his—partner? Lover? Flatmate? Don’t think about it now, John—his maniac’s elbow.  
  
Oh, good. Dinner was announced and the party moved into the formal dining room.  
  
John was relieved to see that, as usual, they were seated at the foot of the table and near an exit. Even Mycroft knew better than to actually trap his brother in such a setting with no escape route.  
  
Salad. “Things” in the salad. “Stop picking at it, then,” he warned Sherlock sharply.  
  
Ah. The palate cleanser: pear cardamom sorbet. Excellent. John blew out a relieved breath.  
  
And then the main course: Grilled rack of lamb with stir fried vegetables (featuring, of course, courgettes) and potato parsley puree. Oh, joy. Sherlock pressed his back against his chair, getting as far away as he could from the loaded plate.  
  
“Don’t,” John warned him in a whisper.  
  
“Just get it away, John. Please.”  
  
John got the attention of one of the servers. “My friend’s on a very restricted diet. Can you take this away and bring him some more of that sorbet, please?” An obedient nod and the offending dish was whisked away.  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered. John patted his knee beneath the table.  
  
“You don’t care for lamb?” asked a slightly overweight man seated across from them.  
  
“When I was a child, I was trampled by an entire herd of sheep. Horrible. I get flashbacks.”  
  
John couldn’t help it. He snickered at the man’s shocked expression.  
  
“You’re Mycroft Holmes’ brother, aren’t you?” the man continued, his cheeks going slightly pink.  
  
“Unfortunately, yes.”  
  
“I’ve heard about you. Bit outrageous, some of your behaviour, isn’t it? Your brother has a terrible time of it because of you, you know.”  
  
Oh, shit.   
  
Sherlock leaned forward, peering at the man, scanning him. _Deducing_ him.  
  
Here it comes. John put down his fork to free up his hands.  
  
“My behaviour is outrageous? _Mine_? What would my _dear_ brother say if he knew that you like to wear women’s underclothes?”  
  
“What?” The pink face now had a red spot on each check.  
  
“And not only do you like to wear them, but you’ve been known to wear them under your robe while you’re sitting on the bench. You like the pinch of the garter. You sometimes stroke it—”  
  
“That’s enough, you bastard!” The face, so lax before, was now beet red.  
  
“What are you doing?” asked a woman seated across from John.  
  
Sherlock gave her a once over, then looked up and down the table at the other guests. “No more than you. You’re having an affair with—” he glanced around and pointed— “him. Did I hear him say that he’s the mayor of somewhere-or-other? Doesn’t matter.” The man in question was now staring in their direction, but his eyes kept flicking nervously toward the woman. “Oh, don’t worry. Having an affair with your P.A. is hardly worth mentioning, since she’s been embezzling from you and has plans to run away with your chauffeur.”  
  
“What was that?” The man rose from his seat, his chair scraping on the floor.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft moaned from his position at the head of the table.   
  
Sherlock moved to his next target. “He’s gay. Lavender marriage, but his orientation is hardly a secret. What is a secret is that his wife is also his first cousin.”  
  
“Sherlock, shut up now,” John warned. Instead, Sherlock rose and gave him a cocky, arrogant look before scanning the room again.  
  
“She says she’s Swedish but she’s not. I have no idea why.”  
  
“Sherlock…” Mycroft hissed.  
  
The mayor of somewhere-or-other took three large steps and suddenly he was there behind John’s chair and his fist was up and John might not have been very proud of what he did later but at that moment it seemed the only thing he could do.  
  
The mayor of somewhere-or-other made a sort of “oof” sound when he hit John’s chair, which was suddenly in his way, at full speed.  
  
Sherlock probably would have been amused if he had seen this, but his attention was elsewhere. The embezzling woman was headed for him, bits of lamb stuck to the knife gleaming in her hand.  
  
*  
  
“A knife?!” John nodded. “That’s madness,” Greg whistled.  
  
“it’s all a bit of a blur after that,” the ex-army captain admitted. “I have to say, Sherlock was in top form. He somehow managed to continue spilling everyone’s secrets whilst defending himself with a plate.”  
  
“What’d his brother do?”  
  
“Mycroft? As far as I know, he asked a server to tell the chef to hold the chocolate mousse, fired most of his security team, and very possibly had a small war started somewhere as a diversion.”  
  
“So, attending one of Mycroft’s dinners as a punishment is off the list, I take it?”  
  
“Well, I won’t deny it—it _was_ a boring dinner until then.”  
  



	25. Chapter 25

“Watch _Shaun the Sheep_ , Daddy? Watch _Postman Pat? Mr. Bean_?”  
  
“No, Sherlock. No telly right now.”  
  
Sherlock sighed and pushed his collection of DVDs away, sliding them under the coffee table.  
  
He took out his Mozart Magic Cube that Uncle Greg had gotten him. He liked that. He began to push the buttons, making the different instruments pictured on each side of it play and the lights flash.  
  
“I am going to kill your Uncle Greg for getting you that,” Daddy commented, whisking it away and tucking it behind his chair. Daddy then sat down, leaned back, and shut his eyes.  
  
Undeterred, he took out his blocks. He started making a tower on the coffee table from them—a very tall, very thin tower—one block wide, to be exact. With each additional block, it teetered more and more.  
  
CRASH! Daddy nearly jumped out of his chair as the blocks hit the hard table.  
  
“Oops,” he commented.  
  
“Sherlock. My love. Can you please play with something quiet? How about a puzzle?” Daddy leaned his head back and shut his eyes again.  
  
Sherlock frowned. He walked over to Daddy’s chair on his knees and laid his hands on Daddy’s legs. Daddy opened his eyes. “Hullo, my sweet boy. What’s up?”  
  
“Daddy’s hurt?”  
  
“Daddy has a headache.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because Daddy just had a rather loud shouting match with Big Brother. Now, why don’t you go look at a book or something, okay?” Daddy shut his eyes again and sighed.  
  
Sherlock looked around himself. Ah. There was one. Daddy was right—they did wander off and reappear in the most unlikely places. He wiped the dummy on his t-shirt and leaned on Daddy’s knees again. “Daddy? You want this?” Daddy opened his eyes just a little and he offered the slightly dusty object.   
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
Sherlock stood up, puzzling. What did Daddy do for him when he felt yucky? Oh! He dropped the dummy back on the floor and went into the kitchen.  
  
“Sherlock, what are you doing in there?” Daddy called out.  
  
“Here, Daddy. For you.” He held out one of his training cups—it was one of his favourites and had Winnie-the-Pooh on it. It was dripping.  
  
“Oh, that is so thoughtful of you, my precious thing! Yes, water is very good for someone with a headache, but I’ll get some myself in a grown-up glass in a bit, okay?”  
  
Sherlock was crushed. As Daddy closed his eyes _again_ , he thought and thought about what else Daddy did for him when he wasn’t feeling well.  
  
Oh, of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He went down the hall to the bedroom as quietly as he could, then snuck back.  
  
“What’s that now, Sherlock?” Daddy sounded a bit angry. He didn’t even open his eyes this time. He made an annoyed-grown-up noise (Sherlock heard that a lot—even when he wasn’t Little) and reached his hands up. “What…?” He opened his eyes and looked down at the object his boy had pressed into his hands. “Oh, my sweetheart! You are so clever! I’m sure I’ll feel much better right away now that I’ve got your bee to cuddle with.”  
  
  
  



	26. Chapter 26

“Is it actually possible for you to solve a case without being such a prick?” John wondered, almost conversationally.  
  
“I doubt it,” Sherlock admitted, mumbling around the tea towel that held the cold gel pack against his chin.  
  
John couldn’t help it. He was trying to be stern; to reign him in a bit, but honestly the detective looked so puzzled about the whole situation it was just ridiculous. He giggled. “Keep that on there for ten minutes,” he instructed. “And to avoid this occurring in the future, can I just suggest that you begin avoiding using the words ‘idiot,’ ‘stupid,’ and ‘moron’ in reference to clients? At least while they’re in the room?”  
  
“Hmm. Perhaps.” Sherlock sounded doubtful.  
  
“Even when you are being brilliant,” John added. He brushed his hand across the pale forehead. “My mad man.”  
  
“How do you know all those things?” the taller man asked suddenly, wincing.  
  
“All what things?” John washed his hands again and plugged in the kettle.  
  
“All those—what to say. What not to say.”  
  
“I should think it’s fairly obvious,” he responded.  
  
“It’s not obvious to me,” Sherlock admitted. “Well, I know about the idiot/moron part. I mean the other things. You always seem to know how to keep the peace. A bit ironic, considering you’re an army captain.”  
  
“Was. Was a captain. Now I’m just a doctor.”  
  
“’Just’ a doctor? I don’t think it’s ‘just,’ John.”  
  
“What’s gotten into you?” he wondered as he pulled two mugs from the cupboard. “I said, keep that cold pack on there.”  
  
Sherlock sighed and lifted it to his face again before reaching into the fridge with his free hand for the milk.  
  
  
  



	27. Chapter 27

“No!”  
  
“Sherlock, you may not wander around the flat with no clothes on.” He offered the pants again.   
  
Sherlock pushed them away. “No no no!” He stomped his bare feet on the bedroom floor.  
  
“It’s cold.”  
  
“Got my b’anket.”  
  
“You can’t wear just a blanket. What if someone comes in?”  
  
“No clothes!”  
  
John sat down on the bed heavily. Sherlock was as far away from him as he could get, backed into a corner, wrapped in a blanket. “What is the matter with your clothes?” he asked as calmly as he could.  
  
“Owie.”  
  
John frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Clothes are owie.” He slid down the wall until his bum hit the floor. And then he winced.  
  
John was on his feet instantly. “Sherlock? What’s the matter? Are you in pain? What’s hurting you?” He crouched down in front of his Little boy.  
  
Sherlock whimpered. “Clothes are owie, Daddy,” he repeated.  
  
“Sherlock, stand up. Let me look at you,” John replied slowly. He thought he might know what was going on. He rose and helped his boy stand up, then carefully unwrapped the blanket that he held tightly around his shoulders.  
  
Oh, shit. “Sherlock!” he gasped. “What’s this? Why didn’t you tell me?” The ivory skin—all seven miles or so of it—was covered in small red bumps. He turned him around. Yup. The backside was the same story. “What happened?”  
  
Sherlock, his back to his Daddy, shook his head and shrugged. The doctor examined him carefully. His trained eye picked up the pattern. No rash on his hands or face, but everywhere else was covered. “Come lie on the bed,” he requested. He took a closer look. As he suspected, the worst of it was around the waist and the skin between his legs. Oh, and his… owie. “It’s the new washing powder,” he announced. “You’re allergic to it.”  
  
Sherlock nodded sadly. “Hurts.”  
  
John rubbed his head. “Of course it hurts. I am so sorry, my sweetheart. I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?” He got a shrug in response. “No, that was Daddy’s job, wasn’t it? Daddy should have noticed sooner.”   
  
“Daddy fix it!” Sherlock pouted, tears threatening to overflow.  
  
John thought for a few seconds. “All right. Daddy will fix this. First, let’s get you in a nice bath. I’ve got some stuff to put in the water to help make your skin not so owie, okay?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and sat up.  
  
“And I’ll dig out some clothing that hasn’t been washed in the new stuff, all right?”  
  
Another nod.  
  
“And I’ll get rid of that nasty stuff and get our old washing powder, yeah?”  
  
An emphatic nod.  
  
“All right, then. Into the tub with you. I am so sorry, my love. Do you forgive Daddy?”  
  
“’kay.”  
  
  
  



	28. Chapter 28

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock glared across the room at his partner, who had just come home from work.  
  
“Nothing. I’ve got the start of a cold, that’s all.” He sounded stuffed up and his eyes were bleary.  
  
Sherlock immediately put down his violin and approached the doctor, carefully removing his coat. He brushed his fingers gently across John’s face, cradling his chin in his palm.  
  
“Don’t get too close,” John warned. “I don’t want you catching it.”   
  
Sherlock snorted and shook his head. “If I didn’t catch it this morning…” he reminded him.  
  
Despite how he felt, John giggled. “True,” he acquiesced. “Excellent conditions for an opportunistic virus.”  
  
“I fixed the chair, by the way,” the detective added, pulling the shorter man by the hand over to the fireplace. He demonstrated his statement by grasping the arm of John’s chair and wiggling it.  
  
“Good job,” his flatmate replied. “I had no idea you had carpentry skills.”  
  
“Oh, I’ve been known to put up some shelves now and again.”  
  
John started to laugh out loud at this, but it ended in some rather wet-sounding coughs instead. Sherlock frowned as John cleared his throat and dropped into the newly-repaired chair. “That fire feels nice,” he commented hoarsely, kicking off his shoes.  
  
Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and began rummaging around. John ignored him (nothing seemed to be crashing to the floor or bursting into flames) and grabbed the newspaper from Sherlock’s chair, settling back in and flipping open to the sport section.   
  
“Considering how to lose all the money you earned today?” Sherlock asked cheekily, looming over John’s shoulder and peering at the racing news to which John had turned.  
  
“Yeah, actually, and—oh, thanks—it didn’t take a bloody detective to figure that out, did it?” John accepted the deduction and the box of tissues with a smile.  
  
Sherlock returned to the kitchen and continued rummaging while John considered what he had heard about a particular outsider and the odds on the favourite. He didn’t place bets very often, but it could be fun if he placed a small wager. He’d think about it. He sniffed and blew his nose.  
  
“Thank you,” he said in surprise as Sherlock handed him a steaming hot cup of tea. He took a sip. “Mmm. Honey and lemon. Perfect.” Sherlock nodded wordlessly and began to put his violin away. John looked up from his paper as his flatmate slipped off his dressing gown and put on his suit jacket. “Going out?” he inquired in surprise as he retrieved his Belstaff and scarf.  
  
“Just have to run down to the corner for something. Won’t be a moment.”   
  
“Patches, not cigarettes,” John commanded. The younger man swooped out of the flat without a response.  
  
*  
  
True to his word, he returned twenty minutes later. John looked at him in surprise, peering through the bathroom door, where he was looking for…  
  
Sherlock handed him a sack containing a bottle of Lemsip Cough, a box of decongestant tablets, some sore throat lozenges, and a large bottle of paracetamol tablets, slipping back out of the bathroom before John could say anything. He dosed himself up and put the remaining medicines away.  
  
Sherlock was at the desk, poking at his laptop. He read something, frowned, and began typing furiously. Ten minutes later John gave up and found a book.  
  
*  
  
He surprised himself; he had apparently dosed off. He glanced down. His book was laid neatly on the floor next to his chair and he was covered with a fairly hideous but warm and soft afghan that his aunt had sent him. Sherlock was back in the kitchen, rattling away. John pushed the afghan off and wandered into the kitchen.  
  
“Sit,” Sherlock grunted, placing a plate with toast soldiers gleaming with butter in front of him. John blinked as his mate carefully added an egg cup with a steaming hot boiled egg, freshly cracked open, and another cup of tea.  
  
“Are you eating too?” John inquired. He was delighted when Sherlock nodded and placed his own plate of toast (half as much as John’s and with far too much marmalade, but that was all right) on the table along with a glass of milk. They munched in companionable silence for a bit.  
  
“No egg?” John finally asked. He couldn’t help himself. Sherlock shook his head with a frown. “All right. As long as you eat something.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t quite finish his toast and he left half a glass of milk. John began to clear the table and Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Don’t. I’ll do it,” he offered.  
  
“Sherlock, I’ve got a cold, not the plague,” John laughed. He stopped abruptly at the look Sherlock gave him. “All right, I won’t help,” he declared, holding his hands up in surrender. He returned to the sitting room, fishing around for the remote and clicking on the television.  
  
When he was done with the washing up, Sherlock slouched into the sitting room. He glanced at the television and, with a harrumphing sound, sat at the desk. He flipped open his laptop and poked at it unenthusiastically.  
  
“What’s the matter?” John finally demanded.  
  
“Nothing.” To prove it, the detective suddenly scowled at the monitor and began typing at a truly impressive speed.  
  
“Okay,” John muttered, turning his attention back to his programme.  
  
*  
  
“I think I’ll sleep upstairs,” John commented a few hours later.  
  
Sherlock scowled. “Why?” he demanded.  
  
“I’m probably going to be tossing and turning and despite this morning’s exchange of bodily fluids I really don’t want you catching this.”  
  
“There’s no need for you to go upstairs. Stay in our bed and I’ll go up, or I’ll sleep on the sofa.”  
  
“That’s not necessary.”  
  
“Our bed is much more comfortable. I don’t mind. Probably not going to go to bed for quite a bit anyway.”  
  
“All right,” John acquiesced. He stood up and winced a bit. “Achy,” he commented. “Our bed will feel nicer,” he admitted. His partner didn’t respond except with an abrupt single nod. The doctor headed down the hall, shaking his head. The man knew how to milk a mood, all right.  
  
Re-dosed, cleaned up, and in comfortable clothes, John slid between the soft sheets with a sigh. He was achy and it did feel good to stretch out. He noticed that Sherlock had put a fresh box of tissues on the bedside table (they had gone through the last of the old box that morning; he grinned at the memory). He flipped open his book and began to read.  
  
“Here.”  
  
“Shit, Sherlock. You startled me.” John closed his book, his finger holding his place.  
  
“I just thought you might want this,” he explained, depositing a glass of water next to the tissues.  
  
“Thanks. That’s very thought—”  
  
Sherlock was already gone.  
  
“—ful of you… you wanker. I’ll deal with your mood in the morning,” John told himself, nodding in affirmation and re-opening his book.  
  
*  
  
Four o’clock in the morning and everything had worn off. John blew his nose and coughed, reaching groggily for the water. He needed more… something. He wasn’t actually surprised when Sherlock appeared this time at the doorway of the darkened room, bottles of cough medicine and paracetamol in hand.  
  
“Thanks for that,” he commented between coughs. “Did I wake you?”  
  
“Wasn’t sleeping, no,” the dark-haired shadow admitted.  
  
“Have you been up all night?” John demanded, accepting the bottles. “What have you been doing all this time?”  
  
Sherlock had already disappeared from the room.  
  
John sighed, dosed himself, and settled back down again.  
  
*  
  
John slept in until he was ready for more meds and a nice hot cup of tea. He rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, coughing. He dosed and tidied himself up and walked into the kitchen. The table was set for one and Sherlock was there in an instant, switching on the kettle. “Sit,” he commanded, and John sat, his mouth open in amazement.  
  
Sherlock soon put a plate with toast and a segmented orange in front of him and added a mug of steaming hot tea, once again fragrant with honey and lemon, but before John could even lift it to his lips, the man had disappeared again. John drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, considering things for a moment. _All right, that’s it. Time for a Talk,_ he thought to himself. _After breakfast._  
  
By stealth (and excellent timing on the part of Sherlock’s mobile), John managed to clear the table himself. He frowned as he did so, noting that there was no evidence whatsoever that Sherlock had had any breakfast himself. He stalked into the sitting room. “Sherlock,” he started right in, “what’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing,” Sherlock responded snappishly, at the same time turning away to look out the window.  
  
“Did you get any sleep?”  
  
...  
  
“Did you have any breakfast?”  
  
…  
  
“Sherlock, what’s going on with you?”  
  
“What do you mean? Nothing.”  
  
“I mean… well, you’ve been—and I don’t mean it to sound this way—but you’ve been really nice to me.” John fell into his chair, noting that the afghan had been neatly folded. Sherlock’s back remained turned. “I mean all this—dinner and picking up medicine and the tissues and everything. It’s just a cold—not even a bad one. There was no need for all that.”  
  
“Yes, there was,” Sherlock replied in a small voice.  
  
“I’m capable of taking care of myself, you know.” _Oh, wrong thing to say, John!_ He winced and berated himself as Sherlock spun to face him, his face dark.  
  
“That’s not the point,” he hissed.  
  
“Okay. Sorry. Then what is the point?”  
  
“Or maybe it is. I don’t know,” his mate responded sadly.  
  
“Why not come sit down and explain?” was the calm suggestion.  
  
Sherlock turned his back again. “It’s…”  
  
John waited, stealthily blowing his nose. “It’s…?” he finally prompted.  
  
“I know that you can take care of yourself, but you shouldn’t have to. Not all the time. Not when you’re ill.”  
  
“I told you it’s not that bad—”  
  
“That’s not the point!” Sherlock shouted.  
  
John clamped his mouth shut. He just had to let his friend get whatever was upsetting him out, without interruption.  
  
“It’s… you’re always taking care of me, and everyone else.” John wanted to reply _You know I like to take care of you,_ but wisely he didn’t. He was beginning to understand. “I just wanted to…” and his voice dropped down until he was speaking so softly John could barely hear him. “I wanted to take care of you for once and I’m not good at it and I probably got it all wrong.” And without letting John see his face, he spun toward the door and ran up the stairs, the door to the second bedroom slamming behind him.  
  
Oh, Sherlock, John thought. You ridiculous, complicated man. How do I get through to you that you’re doing an excellent job and that I feel very much loved and cared for? No. It would have to wait. Sherlock tended to experience strong, tender emotions the way other people experienced root canal. Best not to poke at it for a bit. John retrieved his book from the bedroom, curled up under the afghan, and began to read.  
  
*  
  
 _What the hell is he doing up there?_ John wondered. He had finished several chapters and was considering what to have for lunch. Sherlock had been suspiciously quiet the entire time. With a sigh, he got up, dropped his book on the chair, and trudged up the stairs. “Sherlock?” he said quietly, opening the door. The room had only one window and he hadn’t turned any lights on, so despite the time of day it was a bit dim.   
  
Sherlock was lying on the bed, his back to the door. “Hey,” John called out. “You all right?” He strode across the cluttered room (if they were going to use it for storage they really had to be more organised about it). “Hey,” he repeated more softly. “Do you want something to eat? I was just going to put together some lunch.”  
  
“No.”   
  
Oh, Sherlock. One of those moods? Why? “What’s the matter?” he asked, sitting on the bed.  
  
“Leave me alone.”  
  
“No. I don’t think so. Tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Are you ill? Did you catch my cold?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then what’s wrong?” He put a tentative hand on his love’s shoulder and was shocked when it was brusquely shoved off.  
  
“I said I don’t know!” he bellowed.  
  
“All right. All right. Calm down. What can I do to hel—”  
  
“Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT!” Sherlock sat up and shoved him away. “That. That’s what’s wrong.”  
  
“What?” John held his hands up in surrender to show that he was going to stop touching him.  
  
“You. Helping. All the time.”  
  
“Okay…” John wasn’t sure where he was going with his rant.  
  
“I wanted to reciprocate. To take care of you for once.”  
  
“You have been. You’ve been taking excellent care of me,” John protested.  
  
“But… it’s just…”  
  
“Take a breath,” the doctor instructed. “You’ve been perfectly wonderful. Why are you so upset?”  
  
“It just makes me realise how much you do for me, and I feel awful about it. I must be a horrible burden.”  
  
“What? No. No! Not at all. Why would you think that?”  
  
“Because of everything you do for me.”  
  
“What do you mean—like the shopping?”  
  
“Everything. Everything else. You make sure I eat and I sleep and you bandage me up and check on me and apologise for me and…”  
  
“Is that all?” John chuckled. It was quite a list.  
  
“No.”  
  
“So what else?”  
  
Sherlock’s voice dropped. “The… _special_ things you do to take care of me.”   
  
Special things? Oh! “God, Sherlock. Do you mean being your Daddy?”  
  
“I want it to stop,” he said in a voice so low John could barely hear him.  
  
“What?! No!” John grabbed his shoulder and pulled him over so he could see his face. It was a study in misery. “I love being your Daddy. You know that.”  
  
“But it’s so much work and I’m so demanding. I’m awful.”  
  
“Sweetheart, yes, sometimes it’s a lot of work and you do perhaps need a bit more looking after than most people, but that’s fine.”  
  
“You should be a real father. You should be married and working regular hours and living in the suburbs. You should have _real_ children.” The brilliant eyes filled with tears.  
  
“No. I should _not_ be married and working regular hours and all that. That sounds really… boring. I am exactly where I should be, and where I _want_ to be. And _how_ I want to be. Have you forgotten that I love you?”  
  
“But I’m so awful.”  
  
“Sometimes, yeah, you are. But most of the time you are brilliant and amazing and funny and talented and beautiful and I am so very, very fortunate to be with you.” The tears overflowed and John wrapped himself around his love.   
  
“No no no no!”  
  
“Shh. It’s all right. Calm down.”  
  
“No. No more. No more taking care of me!”  
  
“Yes. You can’t stop me. Like right now, I would like to hold you until you calm down, and then I’d like you to have some lunch with me. All right?”  
  
“No!”  
  
John sighed. He knew that tone. Sherlock had worked himself up and there was very little he could do about it. “Shall I leave you alone for a bit?” he inquired, not expecting an answer and not getting one. He patted Sherlock’s leg and rose. “Come down when you’re ready, okay? I need your help with my blog. I missed something about the ears.”  
  
*  
  
“I meant it.”  
  
John looked up from his laptop. Sherlock had finally descended; he had been upstairs for over two hours after their somewhat lopsided conversation. He looked dreadful; his eyes were red and his hair was a disaster.  
  
“Meant what?”  
  
“I meant it when I said that it has to stop. You’re not my father and I’m not your boy. It’s silly and stupid and it has to stop. Get rid of everything.”  
  
“Are you serious? No!” John turned in his chair in shock.  
  
“Get rid of it.” Sherlock did an abrupt about-face and headed through the kitchen to their bedroom.  
  
*  
  
“Are you all right?” John asked quietly an hour or so later. “You’ve got me worried.”  
  
Sherlock was on the bed, reading. He had taken off his shirt. He glared at the interruption, closing his book. “I’m fine,” he spat out. “No need to take care of me, all right?”  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock. This is getting exhausting. Look. I’ve got a cold. It’s not a bad one, but I’m tired enough that I’d like to take a nap. Can you at least move over?” He did so, without a word. John lay down and Sherlock moved as if to get up. “No. Don’t. Stay here. Stay with me. Please?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and opened his book again.  
  
*  
  
“Here. Take these.” He handed John decongestant tablets and a glass of water.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
*  
  
Three days later John was feeling fine. He had done some shopping and was putting together sausages and eggs for dinner. “Sherlock. Come eat.” His partner was poking at his violin; not playing it. He had been in a sort of holding pattern the past few days; hovering over John with medicine and tea and quiet when he wanted to sleep but not talking much.  
  
John was worried.  
  
It just wasn’t normal for Sherlock to be so… normal. He had helped John with his blog and hadn’t set anything on fire. He was almost polite to a potential client.  
  
But John, who knew Sherlock best, could see it. He could see the tension in his clenched jaw; hear it in his voice. Sometimes tears threatened and sometimes his hands shook.  
  
“Not hungry,” he said now.  
  
“Then come keep me company while I eat.”  
  
Obediently Sherlock approached the table. And in a split second went from quiet to furious. “What the hell is that?” he demanded, his eyes flashing. He pointed at the table.  
  
“Watch your language. That’s your dinner. Be a good boy and wash up and then sit down and eat.”  
  
“I told you—no more!” He slammed his hand down on the table, then swept his arm across it, knocking his dish to the floor. His plastic dish. His plastic dish that was shaped like a bear’s head and had two sections so food didn’t touch food and was decorated with classic Winnie the Pooh images.   
  
John watched sadly as his boy stormed out of the room. Damn.  
  
  
  



	29. Chapter 29

It had been a miserable week. Sherlock was distant and cold, barely speaking to anyone. He kept going out without John—not telling him where he was going or what he was doing. John gave up on offering him meals. Mrs Hudson came up and tutted and fretted.  
  
“He’ll be fine,” John assured her.  
  
He had no idea if he was telling the truth.  
  
And then there was a case.   
  
*  
  
Sherlock was, for once, in the flat. It was a cold day and he was lounging around in his dressing gown over a buttoned shirt and tight trousers. John thought that his foul mood was finally lifting a bit; he had managed to get him to eat some breakfast. Now John was peering down on the street, just watching the people as they hurried past, bundled up against the chill. And then one person in particular caught his eye.  
  
“Sherlock, come look,” he requested. “There’s something up with that man.”  
  
Sherlock rose lazily and stood behind John, peering over his shoulder. The man in question was well dressed in an elegant grey suit, but he had no overcoat. Considering the temperature, that was odd in itself, but what was odder still was that he was running along the street, glancing at each building as he passed.  
  
“He’s hardly dressed for that,” he continued.  
  
“He’s coming here,” the detective noted. He went to the door and shouted, “Mrs Hudson! Please let the man at the door in.”  
  
Sure enough, the man, who was middle-aged and not in the best of shape, came panting up the steps while Sherlock set The Chair in place. “Please sit,” he rumbled. The man collapsed into it. John handed him a tissue and he took it gratefully, wiping his glistening forehead.  
  
“Explain yourself,” Sherlock commanded, falling into his chair and steepling his hands beneath his chin.  
  
And so he did. He was vice-president of one of the largest banks in London. His main area of responsibility was handling high-profile loans—loans for which the securities often required guards. The day before he had arranged for such a loan for a prominent member of society who needed some liquid assets. It was to be a short-term affair—he had some money coming to him shortly— but the item offered as security was actually worth far, far more than the cash requested.  
  
The object was a piece of jewellery that John had never heard of but Sherlock seemed to be familiar with. “It was incredible. He just handed me a case—lined in velvet—and there it was. I’ve never actually held something so valuable. It was terrifying. I was so nervous I found that I couldn’t leave it in the bank. Bank vaults are often targets for robberies. So I decided to keep it with me—take it home every night. It was only for a few days.”  
  
“All right. Who lives with you?”  
  
Their visitor explained that other than a housekeeper, the only other people who lived with him were his son and his niece—his deceased brother’s daughter.  
  
“You weren’t stupid enough to tell them about it, were you?”  
  
“Sorry to admit it, but yes, I did.”  
  
“Did they know where you were going to put it?”  
  
“I’m an idiot. Yes.”  
  
“And…?”  
  
Their visitor sighed deeply, covering his eyes with his hand. “And my son asked me for money to cover his gambling debts. I refused. I’m sick over his habit, but other than refusing to fund it, I can’t seem to stop him. He’s got this rotten friend—George Burnwell—who’s a horrible influence.”  
  
“Boring. Get to the point.”  
  
“The point is that that night, I woke up to find my son, dressed only in his shirt and trousers, holding this piece of jewellery and wrenching it in his hands. Three of the stones were gone.”  
  
“God. What did you do?” John interjected.  
  
“I phoned the police. He was locked up.”  
  
“But the stones weren’t found,” Sherlock stated.  
  
“Not a sign of them, and now I’ve got only a few days before the borrower returns for his security. I have no idea what to do.”  
  
Sherlock tapped his finger against his lips. “Was the piece damaged?”  
  
“Yes. It was twisted.”  
  
“Where have they looked for the stones? Inside and out?”  
  
“Yes. Certainly.”  
  
“I need to see for myself.” Sherlock leapt up from his chair and lunged for his coat and scarf. He then extended his hand toward John, the man’s coat in it. “John? Coming?” John let out a breath that he had seemed to have been holding all week.  
  
A short taxi ride, during which Sherlock remained silent as a tomb, staring out the window as the city flashed by, brought them to the banker’s residence. The detective immediately circled around to the back of the impressive house while John headed inside with their client, wanting to get the chill out of his bones—a chill not caused entirely by the temperature.  
  
*  
  
“Did your son have anything on his feet?” The detective had swept into the sitting room, bringing a wave of cold air in with him.  
  
“Erm… actually, no. They were bare.”  
  
“Excellent.”  
  
He dashed back outside.  
  
*  
  
“Why were you outside?” he demanded, peering closely at the young woman. She squirmed under the scrutiny.  
  
“I… uh…”  
  
“She was locking up before bed. She always does,” their client supplied.  
  
“From the outside?”  
  
“I wanted to see if I could see him,” she offered suddenly.  
  
Sherlock frowned. “Who?”  
  
“Mrs Paar’s boyfriend. She was outside talking to him.”  
  
“He has an artificial leg,” Sherlock commented off-handedly. “Not a suspect. Dull.” He waved his hand dismissively.  
  
“How did you…”  
  
“Footprints in the mud. It’s intriguing how much they can tell the right person,” he added mysteriously.  
  
“How can you be sure she wasn’t telling him about the coronet?” the young woman persisted.  
  
“I can’t, but I can be sure that he didn’t get any closer to the house than the garden last night.”  
  
“From his footprints,” John clarified.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“What if she brought it out to… oh, right. Footprints again,” John realised.  
  
“Excellent, John.”  
  
For a few seconds, they made eye contact. Then Sherlock began to pace. “Go away,” he commanded everyone rudely. “I need to think. Mr Holder, why don’t you go see your son. See if you can get him to tell you what happened.”  
  
“Of course. Amanda, do you want to come with me?”  
  
“No… this has got me… my stomach’s bad.”  
  
“Go rest. I’ll be back in a few hours.”  
  
They both departed, leaving John and Sherlock alone.  
  
“What’s your next—” John started.  
  
Instead of answering, Sherlock strode rapidly out of the house. John dashed after him, just catching up as he hailed a cab.  
  
“Were you going to wait for me?” the doctor asked angrily.  
  
He received no reply.  
  
*  
  
Silence. Sherlock hadn’t said a word the entire ride back to the flat, nor after their return. He had rushed down the hallway to the bedroom and slammed the door behind himself. John rolled his eyes and gave up. Whatever this mood was, it showed no signs of letting up, and he was getting damn tired of fighting it. He sat at the desk and began to sort the mail.  
  
*  
  
“Where are you—” John attempted, but Sherlock plunged directly out of the flat through the kitchen door. John heard him clattering down the stairs, and then the sound of the street door slamming.  
  
Damn him.  
  
At one time John would have been concerned, but now he was just angry. He was sick of the breach they had been experiencing. Why had Sherlock brought him along that morning if he was going to ditch him just as things were getting interesting? Where had he gone?  
  
And why was he wearing those (amazingly tight) black jeans?  
  
He was out all night.   
  
John didn’t sleep well. At all.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock finally returned home. John had already had breakfast and was fuming as he attempted to read the paper when the man had, surprisingly quietly, come in. He was wearing those jeans, and the purple shirt—the one that drove John absolutely bonkers. John had glared at him before deliberately holding the paper up in front of his face. He continued to hold it there until he heard the bathroom door shut and the shower go on.  
  
This is idiotic, he told himself as he listened to the water run. I’m acting like a teenage girl.  
  
“Sherlock, can we talk for a minute—” he called out as soon as he heard the bathroom door open.  
  
“Busy,” was the cold reply, shot over his shoulder as he immediately went into the bedroom to dress.  
  
Fine, John thought bitterly. He held the paper up again, not actually absorbing a single word.  
  
Sherlock finally emerged, dressed in a suit. He pulled on his coat. “Coming?” he asked, his voice even.  
  
“Do you really want me to?” John shot back hotly.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
*  
  
“The thief was George Burnwell, assisted by your niece.”  
  
“Amanda?!”  
  
“They’re lovers. He was here that night. She told him about the piece, but I don’t think she meant for him to break in and steal it. When she realised what had happened, though, she chose to cover for him instead of speaking on behalf of her cousin. His loyalty to her, though—that’s why he didn’t say anything. He was the one who introduced them. I suspect he felt guilty about that.”  
  
“That’s… I can’t even. Where is she? Where is he?”  
  
“In custody. And your son’s been released and should be arriving any minute now. Come on, John. We’re done here.”  
  
*  
  
“How did you know it was Burnwell’s footprints?” John asked in spite of himself. He had asked and Sherlock had told him, in clipped and strained tones, what has transpired overnight, including the last-minute discovery of the guilty couple ready to drive to the continent. The missing jewels were in the glovebox. “I mean, the bare feet and the bloke with the artificial leg—those were obvious. But it could have been anyone else.”  
  
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Sherlock explained. “Burnwell was Arthur’s best friend. How would a stranger have known the coronet was in the house? Mr Holder hadn’t told anyone else he had brought it home. He wasn’t even sure the housekeeper knew—and she didn’t, by the way.”  
  
“Okay. So that boot you had—that was one of Burnwell’s? To match up?”  
  
“Mmm. Do we have any of that ginger marmalade?”  
  
“You finished it. Would you eat some sausage and eggs if I made them?”  
  
“Do you want me to?” Sherlock’s voice was very small.  
  
“Very much.”  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock, how did you _get_ Burnwell’s boot? It’s not like you had a warrant or anything.”  
  
“Got it from his personal assistant.”  
  
“He just gave it to you?”  
  
“Not quite. It’s not important. You made a mistake in your last blog.”  
  
“And you haven’t hacked into my account and fixed it yet? Nor berated me publicly in the comments? What is the world coming to?”  
  
“Been busy,” Sherlock replied innocently.  
  
“All right,” John sighed. “Tell me and I’ll fix it.”  
  
*  
  
John was having a rough time writing up their newest case. He couldn’t come out and say exactly what famous person and famous piece of jewellery were involved, and Sherlock had excluded him from so much of the investigation he was almost guessing what had transpired. He reviewed what he knew one more time, murmuring under his breath as he re-read his writing.  
  
Ordinarily he would ask Sherlock about the missing bits, but things were still not quite right between them. Sherlock had continued to be distant and oddly subdued and John hadn’t been sure how to draw him out, so they had remained at an impasse. He pecked away at the laptop keys, not making much progress.   
  
Finally, he gave in. “I’d appreciate a little help with this,” he commented quietly.  
  
Sherlock, ensconced on several pillows on the floor with a book, sighed. “What do you need to know?” he responded. He sounded exhausted.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock, wait. Go back.” Alarms were clanging so loudly in John’s head that he was positive they were actually audible. “What exactly _did_ you do get Burnwell’s old boots for comparison?”  
  
The detective, who had been impatiently explaining his deductions and investigations, suddenly slammed his mouth shut.  
  
“Well?” John was not feeling terribly patient. Sherlock’s night out while investigating, leaving John to fret and wait up even though he had been warned not to, still infuriated him, and discussing the case had brought it all up again. He hated that. Their argument of the prior few weeks wasn’t resolved—not even slightly—and John had been terrified that his love was indulging in—well. And now, the fact that Sherlock had kept him at arm’s length—quite literally—the entire week since the dénouement was only feeding his suspicions. He never let him get close enough to take his pulse, and he wouldn’t look him in the eye. He never once came to bed.  
  
“It’s none of your concern,” was the sharp reply.  
  
“What the _hell_ do you mean it’s none of my concern? You just said that you ‘made the acquaintance’ of the suspect’s personal assistant, and suddenly you’ve got hold of a pair of the suspect’s boots? There’s a large step missing there, don’t you think?”  
  
“What if there is?” Sherlock’s tone was cold.  
  
“I think that you owe me an explanation.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why?! Because I’m your bloody partner, and if you did what I think you did…” He didn’t know. He didn’t know that he would do.  
  
“What do you think I did?” Sherlock demanded haughtily.  
  
“Did you supply him with anything? Share anything maybe?”  
  
Sherlock’s expression changed instantly from overbearing to insulted. “What? Is that what you think… no. No! How could you think I’d… did you really?”  
  
“Well, frankly, yes.”  
  
“Well, I didn’t. I’m clean and I didn’t provide him with anything illegal. Are we done with the subject?” the detective snarled.  
  
“Yes. Sorry. Go on. You matched up the boots to the bootprints in the mud…”  
  
*  
  
Damn. Damn him! John seethed. He had continued writing up the case and had belatedly realised that somehow the dark-haired devil had never answered his question. What _had_ he done to get those boots?  
  
“Sherlock, come over here,” he commanded.  
  
“What?”   
  
John was acutely aware that after the conclusion of this case there had been no celebratory feast or 16-hour nap or… especially not that. “Come over here to me,” he requested again, standing up. Sherlock stood in front of him, sulking. “Let me see your eyes,” the doctor asked, more softly.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because it’s been far too long. I hate this.”  
  
“This what?”  
  
“This… this _distance_ between us. We need to resolve it.”  
  
“I’m fine with the way things are, _Doctor,_ ” he spat out and started to turn away.  
  
John grabbed his thin wrists in his strong hands. “Nope. You’re not and I most certainly am not, either. Sherlock, we’ve _got_ to talk about it.”  
  
He turned his head to avoid the kind, dark eyes, shaking it. “No. I don’t want to.”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“I said that I don’t want to!” He wrenched his wrists away.  
  
“Sherlock! It’s been weeks. You’re miserable. I’m miserable. You don’t come to bed and you don’t eat with me. We haven’t kissed or—anything. You won’t even let me touch you.” The taller man remained silent, his head turned away. “Sherlock. Please. My love. Please let me touch you.”  
  
“You CAN’T!” he roared.  
  
“God, Sherlock. Calm down! Why can’t I touch you? What’s happened? Are you all right? Are you ill?” John reached out and was completely taken aback when his love shoved him, hard, and strode hastily out of the room.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock?” he said quietly, standing at the bedroom door. The room was dark. He entered and snapped on the night light. His partner was lying on their bed on his stomach, clutching a pillow. “Will you do something for me?”  
  
“What do you need?” His voice was rough.  
  
“I need—” he climbed onto the bed and began rubbing Sherlock’s back. “I need this. I need you. I need to touch you and talk to you and cuddle with you.”   
  
“I told you not to touch me,” he snapped, shrugging his hand off.  
  
“Why not?” John snarled back. “You’re really starting to piss me off, you know.”  
  
“ _Starting_ to?”  
  
Despite everything, John smiled sadly at this. “You git. Please, please can we get past whatever it is and get back to normal?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“You don’t know?”  
  
“I don’t know if we can. John, I don’t even know what’s normal—not for us. Not for anyone.”  
  
“Sit up and look at me,” John instructed, pulling him up. “I need to see your face. That’s better. Now, will you listen to me?” Sherlock nodded. “What’s normal for everyone else doesn’t matter. What’s normal for us does. And what’s normal for us is that—we are in love with each other. We live together. We sleep in the same bed. We work together. We _occasionally_ have a meal together—” he paused and Sherlock rolled his eyes—“and we, as often as possible, have rather mind-blowing, incredible, fantastic sex.” Sherlock gave him a small, sad smile. “And finally, we share something very special. And do you know what?” Sherlock shook his head slowly. “I do not want a single one of those things to stop.  
  
“But lately, they have. They’ve _all_ stopped, and I’ve been miserable, and you’ve been miserable as well. Isn’t that right?” Sherlock thought about it, then nodded reluctantly.  
  
“Now, correct me if I’m wrong—I know how much you love to do that—but this started when you decided that you didn’t want to play anymore. That you didn’t want me taking care of you. Is that accurate?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And you heard what I had to say about it then?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What did I say?” He laid a hesitant hand on Sherlock’s leg, and it wasn’t rejected.  
  
“You said that you loved being Daddy.”  
  
“I love being _your_ Daddy,” he corrected. “Yes, that’s what I said, and it’s what I meant. And what did I say about touching you?”  
  
“You want to. You want to touch me.”  
  
“Yes, I do. But I need to know—do you want to touch me? Do you want me to touch you? Oh, God. Sherlock. What’s the matter?!” Because when he asked, Sherlock’s chin had dropped to his chest and there was a sound very like a sob. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please,” he begged.  
  
“You can’t… I’m… I did a horrible thing and I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t deserve you touching me or taking care of me.”  
  
John wrapped his arms around the shaking shoulders. “No. You do and I will. What could you possibly have done that was so bad?”  
  
“I don’t want to tell you,” he said tightly, clearly trying not to cry.  
  
“I think that you need to and I think that I deserve to hear it,” John replied firmly.  
  
“But if I tell you, you won’t love me anymore.”  
  
“What?! No. Don’t be ridiculous. Seriously, what could you possibly have done—” And then it all fell into place in John’s head—all the pieces. He held Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled back so he could see into his face. “Did you—that man’s assistant. Sherlock. It’s very, very important that you are honest with me about this. Did you do something with that man’s assistant so you could get his boots?”  
  
Sherlock’s knees went up and his head went down on them and his arms wrapped over his head. The sobs that had been threatening hit him so hard it made him dizzy.  
  
And he was alone on the bed now.  
  
  
  



	30. Chapter 30

_He cheated on me. He cheated on me. He fucking CHEATED on me—for a fucking case! After everything I’ve done for him. After everything we’ve been through. The bastard. Have I been wrong? Has everyone else been right? Is he a sociopath? Is he actually capable of feeling about me the way I feel about him?_  
  
John marched through the streets for hours, his thoughts chasing around and around themselves until he felt ill.  
  
*  
  
God, he was tired. He wanted to get home and take off his shoes and put his feet up.  
  
The flat was dark and quiet. He hung his coat up and sat in his chair to take off his shoes. It was cold out and the flat felt cosy and warm.  
  
What was he going to do? What was he going to say?  
  
Where was Sherlock?  
  
He got up and headed down the hall. He pushed the bedroom door open. He slid off his trousers and pulled off his jumper and shirt. He pulled back the duvet and slid under it.  
  
He curled up around his love, wrapped his arm around his waist, and buried his face in the fragrant curls.  
  
“I love you, Sherlock,” he whispered.  
  
He fell asleep breathing in that lovely, wonderful—that so dearly missed—scent that was his love.  
  
*  
  
The next morning was—  
  
It was dreadful.  
  
John woke up after an undeniably horrific dream in which he kept trying to catch up with Sherlock, but every time he reached him, he was dragged away by a laughing, demonic James Moriarty, and his fingers would just catch the rough wool of the Belstaff before his very reason for living disappeared from his sight. Over and over and…  
  
Time to get up.  
  
He instinctively reached over. Sherlock’s side of the bed was empty and cold.  
  
Damn.  
  
He threw on some clothes and stumbled into the bathroom and then the kitchen, feeling like he was wearing some sort of melted tire over his head. He tried shaking his head to clear it, but decided immediately after this attempt that coffee was the only answer.  
  
He was reaching for the coffee press when Sherlock came directly into the kitchen from the hall. He hadn’t heard the street door and it startled him a bit, but he got a grip on himself. Being jumpy on top of everything was just…  
  
Well, it was just.  
  
“Here,” Sherlock announced, thrusting a steaming-hot cup of coffee in a familiar Speedy’s cup at him. He also dropped off a small paper bag, similarly decorated.  
  
“What’s this, then?” he demanded while eagerly opening the coffee.  
  
“No idea. I just asked for what you usually get for breakfast.”  
  
John smiled sadly at this. He opened the bag. “Ah.” Boiled egg sandwich. Perfect. Now if only his stomach would unclench, he could eat it. “Sherlock, sit down,” he said instead.  
  
“I’m going out,” was the carefully-careless reply.  
  
“Whatever you’re going out for, it can wait. We need to talk.” He received The Stare with good grace and a(n almost) patient smile. “Sit _down,_ Sherlock,” he commanded.  
  
Sherlock sat.  
  
 _God, why couldn’t he just do that every time?_ He wondered. Just use the “captain” voice and his out-of-this-world man was somewhat frighteningly obedient. It had proven quite handy more than once.  
  
Yes. Commanding him had led to some… Oh. Letting his mind wander. It _had_ been quite a while. He shifted a bit, arranging the folds of his multi-coloured dressing gown (courtesy of Sherlock, of course, after a ridiculous morning spent trying on all of Sherlock’s and finally deciding that none of them fit worth a damn and ending up back in bed sans dressing gown or anything…). It was morning, after all.  
  
So. There sat Sherlock and there stood John.  
  
What now?  
  
He had no idea.  
  
None at all.  
  
After five minutes, he gave up.  
  
“Go on, then,” he breathed.  
  
Sherlock was out like a shot.  
  
*  
  
No, this was not going to be one of those days. It was NOT going to be one of those phoning-texting-swearing days. No. ONE call. ONE text. Both very polite. Very calm. Very welcoming.  
  
Mostly.  
  
Sort of.  
  
Okay, not even close.  
  
Message: _Bollocks, you dickhead. Come home and talk about this now._  
  
Text: _Fuck, Sherlock. Come home now_  
  
He was grateful, at least, for having learned how to manage punctuation when texting. Not that he didn’t want to fuck Sherlock…  
  
Damn.  
  
Wandering again.  
  
It had been weeks.  
  
The dressing gown was covering very loose track pants.  
  
Oh, why the fuck not?  
  
John retreated to the bedroom and shut the door, first ensuring that there was a box of tissues on the bedside table.  
  
He dimly remembered a time when wanking meant conjuring images of pretty girls with full breasts and…  
  
He needed three tissues and a shower.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock returned home hours and hours and hours later. It was well after midnight, actually.  
  
John was still awake.  
  
*  
  
“Don’t,” he insisted, his voice thick; hoarse.  
  
“Yes,” he insisted, his voice insistent; strident. “Get into the bedroom NOW.”  
  
He followed Sherlock down the hallway and into the bedroom and pointed firmly at the bed. “Sit,” he commanded.  
  
Sherlock sat.  
  
“Shoes off.”  
  
Sherlock took his shoes off.  
  
“Move over.”  
  
Sherlock moved over and John sat on the bed.  
  
“Look at me.”  
  
Sherlock turned himself so they were facing one another. “We didn’t kiss,” he suddenly burst out.  
  
“Then what did you… fuck. You gave him a fucking blow job, didn’t you?” he demanded. He had so badly wanted to have a proper conversation, but now he could feel the fury building up inside him again. Sherlock nodded miserably, unable to look him in the eye. “I’m so angry at you I don’t even know what to say,” the doctor admitted.  
  
“I didn’t feel anything. I mean, I wasn’t aroused.”  
  
“You mean you weren’t…”  
  
“No. Not even close. That’s one thing I can’t fake. I had a hard time hiding it. I didn’t want to give myself away. He was… eager.”  
  
“Were you safe?”  
  
“Of course.” The frown. Oh, The Frown. The John-don’t-be-an-idiot-I-expect-more-from-you frown.  
  
He had never been happier to see The Frown.  
  
Okay. Deep breath. Re-assess. Sherlock had (HAD—really truly) given a blow job (a probably mind-blowing-incredible-never-had-anything-even-close-before blow job) to a complete stranger. For a case. And he knew—he KNEW—that in Sherlock’s distorted world view, this made complete sense. Not the emotional part—he was clearly hurting as much as John—but in the “solve-the-case” mode, it did.  
  
And in a very, very odd way…  
  
Yes, it did.   
  
Fuck. It made sense. He got it. He really, truly did. Since that very first—very, very first—forty-eight hours with the madman, including him…  
  
Yeah, he had done that, hadn’t he?  
  
Almost taking a possibly fatal pill?  
  
Just to solve the puzzle?  
  
Just to prove that he was the smartest?  
  
(Not the smartest—Mycroft was smarter and the jury out on Moriarty because genius and madness were thisclose and he couldn’t honestly, after all this time with his love, absolve him of the insanity charge…)  
  
Fuck  
  
Wool gathering  
  
While his love fumed and stewed and… picked apart the stitching on his pillowcase?  
  
“Oi!” He swatted it out of the white fingers. Sherlock managed to look hurt and questioning at the same time. Damn him. John finally capitulated. “I’m still furious with you, and hurt, but yeah, that does help. The not kissing. The not… Thank you for being honest.” John reached out to touch his partner’s shoulder—  
  
And Sherlock flinched.  
  
“What? Is there more?” the older man demanded, anger flaring up again.  
  
“No,” his partner mumbled, now looking anywhere but into his eyes.  
  
“Then what is it?”  
  
“I’ve told you everything,” Sherlock stammered, uncharacteristically.  
  
“Then why? Why won’t you let me touch you? It’s been weeks.”  
  
“I don’t deserve it.” Sherlock moved away from him; to the very edge of the mattress.  
  
“No. Stop that. We haven’t finished talking about this, have we?” John insisted. “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. LOOK at me!”  
  
“I don’t want to!” he shouted.  
  
“Well, I do!” the ex-army captain shouted back.  
  
“You’ve made it perfectly clear that you won’t be forgiving me any time soon, and quite frankly I deserve that…” his voice petered out and he turned his back on his partner, unable to speak any longer. His chest was tight and painful and his hands ached from clenching his fists.  
  
There was a moment of silence.  
  
John finally swallowed hard and attempted to keep his voice even. “Why did you do it? Was that really the only way to get that evidence?”  
  
“The police didn’t have enough to get a search warrant for Burnwell’s property. He and Amanda didn’t leave any evidence of a liaison. They were surprisingly clever about it—only using Arthur’s mobile to contact one another. There was no way to prove which calls were from her and which were from her cousin.”  
  
“So even though there was clear evidence that a second person was involved, that wasn’t enough to get a warrant?” John demanded sceptically.  
  
“It would have taken time, and by then he and she would most likely have left the country with either the jewels or cash from their sale.”  
  
“I see.” John’s voice was bitter and cold. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I get it, but I’m still furious about it. How do we work that out? Because I do respect ‘The Work,’ and I respect _you,_ and I know that you don’t or can’t always infer what is and is not okay in terms of a case, but it’s obvious you knew that this in particular was not okay.”  
  
“Yes. I knew it was wrong.”  
  
“And you did it anyway.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John shut his eyes. He wanted to throttle him.  
  
“John…”  
  
He didn’t open his eyes. “What,” he responded flatly.  
  
“I want to... fix this, and I don’t know how.”  
  
“I don’t know, either,” the doctor replied bluntly.  
  
Sherlock groaned. “But usually when I don’t know something about feelings, you’re the one to fix it,” he whined. “I don’t know what to _do._ ”  
  
John opened his eyes and glared at him. “I told you. I have no idea right now. It’s not something you can fix like a broken table leg. This is going to take time.”  
  
The detective didn’t respond except to drop his eyes to the floor.  
  
“Listen. I need to think, but I also need to sleep, and so do you. We’re not going to resolve any of this in one night, so why don’t we get some sleep and talk more in the morning?”  
  
“I’m not tired.”  
  
John was too tired to get any angrier at the predictable response. Sometimes it was just not worth the fight. “All right,” he sighed. “But I am. I’m going to try to get some sleep. You do what you like. I’m not going to force you.”  
  
Without another word, Sherlock rose and left the room.  
  
John was alone again.  
  
  
  



	31. Chapter 31

Horrible night. Not at all surprising. Even exhausted as he was, John had tossed and turned for at least an hour after the end of their conversation, twisting himself and the sheets into a sweaty tangle. Finally, though, he fell asleep, and the sun was making the bedroom too warm by the time he opened his eyes again.  
  
He dragged himself into the kitchen.  
  
Sherlock rose from the kitchen table and retreated into the sitting room without looking at him.  
  
“Oh, shit, Sherlock. Come here. Have some breakfast with me,” he implored.  
  
He sat down heavily as the too-pale man he loved so very much grabbed his coat and lunged out of the flat. The slam of the street door was like a physical blow.  
  
*  
  
The medical man frowned—again. It had become his habitual expression lately. He was digging out dishes for his breakfast—just tea and toast—but there was something odd about the cupboards. He shoved some of the mugs and mismatched glasses over; pushed past the dishes in the other one. Something was missing.  
  
Oh, God. The training cups. There wasn’t a single one on any of the shelves. And dishes—no plastic one with compartments so food didn’t touch food, decorated with Winnie-the-Pooh and Tigger. What the hell? They clearly weren’t piled in the sink for washing up. Were they…?  
  
He moved into the sitting room and took a good look around. No, no abandoned (and crusty) dishes perched on the coffee table or the desk or the bookshelves.  
  
There was something odd about the sitting room as well. Nothing overt; nothing that anyone else would notice, but something that John most certainly did.  
  
Sherlock’s chair was moved back a few inches; he could see the indentations of the front legs in the carpet. Curious, he knelt down and rubbed at them, and then he reached under. Nothing.  
  
John’s heart began to beat slightly faster. There was nothing under Sherlock’s chair—no books. No paper. Not a single crayon. Spinning on his knees, he reached under his own chair and his eyes opened wide in alarm. Nothing under there, either. Not a mislaid block; not a dusty dummy. He shoved the chair back. No, nothing.  
  
He glanced over towards the sofa. Oh, no. No no no. Rising, he stumbled a bit as he lunged for the box of toys and other special things that they had cleverly disguised as a table, covered with one of Mrs Hudson’s fussier cloths.  
  
It was empty.  
  
John dashed down the hallway to the bathroom. He wasn’t surprised to discover that the basket of bath toys; the special mat—the extra-soft flannel and baby wash—all gone. Now he stepped into the bedroom, realising how hard his heart was beating.  
  
How had the bastard done it? Somehow, while John slept, Sherlock had even emptied their bedroom of every bit of their special things. The drawer that had held the soft blanket, the special t-shirts; the night-time pants—was empty.  
  
John sat heavily on the bed.  
  
 _For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, what did you do?_  
  
*  
  
Had he taken it all to some skip around the corner? John had obviously been sleeping soundly enough that he wouldn’t have heard him go out. Shit.  
  
 _No_. John shook his head, muttering to himself. _He wouldn’t do that. It meant too much to him. He told me that. For whatever reason he’s feeling he doesn’t want it anymore, he still knows, deep down, that he needs it. That I need it. So where… of course!_  
  
John bounded around the corner and up the stairs two at a time.  
  
Oh, thank God.  
  
It was all there. He hadn’t had any boxes to hold the items, so he had used large bin liners. Everything was neatly—lovingly—placed inside of them, and the bags lined up in the space between his old bed and the wall. He had been organised, the doctor discovered. Everything was sorted. The building blocks were in their boxes; the clothing folded. The dishes were stacked. He reached out and picked up the toy mobile; flipped it over. He had even removed the batteries.  
  
The crayons were all neatly lined up in their box, as well—arranged by colour, the way he liked them.  
  
And then something caught his eye. He stooped and looked under the bed—and came face-to-face with Sherlock’s bee.  
  
*  
  
 _Please come home_  
  
A simple enough message to text. Why did it take him so long to type?  
  
Maybe his fingers were tired. It was, after all, the tenth message he had sent. All of them had been variations on his plea:  
  
 _Come home now_  
  
 _Where are you_  
  
 _Come home_  
  
 _I want you home_  
  
 _Im worried about you_  
  
 _We have to talk_  
  
 _Come home you git_  
  
 _Are you alright?_  
  
 _Youre worrying me_  
  
He had not gotten a single reply.  
  
*  
  
He had, of course, interspersed his texts with messages. Those had been a bit longer, but stuck to his theme.  
  
He hadn’t gotten any responses to those, either.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He finally gave up.  
  
*  
  
It was a horribly long, awful day. The doctor didn’t want to leave the flat in case his mate came home. He couldn’t settle down, though. All the programmes on seemed idiotic and too loud. He had nothing to say in his blog. Reading anything was impossible. He tidied a bit—until he came across one forgotten block, lost in the dust under the sofa.  
  
The side facing him featured boron. B. Bee…  
  
He gave up after that and just sat in his chair, fiddling with his mobile. Should he phone Greg? Mycroft? No. He didn’t want to get anyone else involved. It was too personal. The whole thing was far too personal—this was their relationship. Relationship? That word didn’t even sound quite right. They were so much more than just in a romantic relationship. They were flatmates. Work partners. Best friends. Occasionally sparring partners.   
  
So if it wasn’t just a relationship, what was it?  
  
Their _arrangement._  
  
Yes, that was it.  
  
And now, was their arrangement coming to an end?  
  
  
  



	32. Chapter 32

Sherlock finally reappeared the next afternoon; well over twenty-four hours after he had left. John’s eyes swept over him from where he stood by the window, taking note of his condition as he skulked in.  
  
He was pale and his eyes were red. His usually spotless shoes were dusty and his ordinarily fastidious trousers were filthy. His head bent down so he couldn’t make eye contact, he removed his coat and scarf. He was moving stiffly.   
  
The knuckles on both hands were shredded and black with dried blood mixed with dirt.  
  
There was a cut on his left cheekbone, just under his eye. It, too, was encrusted with filth.  
  
He tried. He tried to be calm. He tried to be dispassionate. He tried… for nearly four seconds before almost flying across the room in his eagerness to reach him.  
  
“Christ, Sherlock! I was worried sick! Where the hell have you been?”  
  
He turned his back on the doctor and neatly hung up his coat. His suit jacket was filthy as well and even his curls held evidence of the grit in which he had apparently been rolling.  
  
“God, sweetheart. Are you all right? You’re filthy, and those cuts need cleaning. Go undress. I’m going to run you a bath.”  
  
Surprisingly, after he got the water running, the taller man did join him in the bathroom. He had removed his jacket and socks and shoes and was now attempting to unbutton his shirt. His fingers were stiff and he couldn’t manage it.  
  
“Let me,” the doctor said quietly. Sherlock stood still, his arms down, as John slipped the buttons free. Both cuffs had dried blood smeared on them. “Can this be cleaned?” he asked as he bared the thin wrists.  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  
  
His voice was hoarse and John’s mouth fell open in shock as he slid the ruined shirt from the slender form. There were bruises on his neck.  
  
The shorter man sighed as he ghosted his fingertips over the marks before unfastening his trousers and sliding everything down and off. “Get in,” he instructed. Sherlock complied, sinking into the warm water gingerly and wrapping his arms around his knees. He put his head down on them.  
  
“You need some time to yourself?” John squatted down and gathered the discarded clothing.  
  
He nodded.  
  
“I’ll get you something comfortable to put on.” He exited the room, closing the door softly behind himself.  
  
*  
  
He stood next to their bed, holding a clean, worn t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He was pondering. Should he leave the clothing on the bed, or should he bring it to him in the bathroom? It had been ten minutes. He had heard the tap being turned on again.  
  
He had to check on him.  
  
The room was steamy and warm; Sherlock had clearly added very hot water to his bath. Despite this, he was shivering while moving painfully, trying to wash himself. His head was still tipped down. If he had ever needed his special soft bathmat and flannel, it was now. John wondered what would happen if he went up and retrieved them. He decided against it. One battle at a time.  
  
“Let me,” he offered. Without looking up, the shivering figure reached out the hand with the flannel and surrendered it. He knelt and dipped it into the hot water, rinsing it. “Let’s get you cleaned up and into something warm, yeah?”  
  
*  
  
Finally done. He had cleaned his cuts and gotten him dressed and on the sofa with an afghan over him. His eyes were hooded; heavy. He moved slowly.  
  
“I take it you haven’t had anything to eat any time recently,” John commented. “How about some tea? A few biscuits?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, his eyes shut now.  
  
He drank in small sips and chewed slowly and carefully. John had gotten him to sit up and was seated next to him. Tentatively he reached out and rubbed one thin thigh through the blanket.  
  
It wasn’t really a flinch; more of a slow shudder.  
  
“Where—”  
  
“I’m not going to tell you. You know that.”  
  
“Yes, but I have to ask anyway.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“That’s what we do. You go out and get yourself into at least two fights and Lord knows what other sort of trouble and I wait here to patch you up when you finally reappear and I ask you where you were.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Drink your tea.”  
  
They sat quietly for a bit while Sherlock worked his way through three biscuits and most of his tea.  
  
“I can’t take much more of this,” the older man finally offered.  
  
“More of what, specifically?” Sherlock finished his tea and John took the empty mug. He began to fidget with it, running his thumbs over the smooth surface. It was the one with the eyeball on it and ordinarily it made him smile.  
  
“More of whatever this… _chasm_ that’s opened up between us is.”  
  
“What does that mean, then—not being able to take more of it?” Sherlock’s voice was low and unsure. “Does that mean that you don’t want to be with me anymore?”  
  
“No,” John replied evenly, studying the mug intently.  
  
“Then what does it mean?”  
  
“It means that I am tired of the pushing and pulling and the arguing and the drama. I want to be with you, not left behind.”  
  
“Have I been doing that?”  
  
John shot him a look. “You know you have, and not just for cases. I don’t know what it is, but something’s gotten to you—gotten you frightened… No, let me finish,” he requested as Sherlock opened his mouth to interject something. “There’s nothing wrong with being frightened, but you seem to think that it’s something you have to deal with on your own. I thought you had gotten over that.”  
  
Sherlock shut his mouth and stared down at the mug in the doctor’s hands.  
  
“I thought that you finally understood what it meant for us to be together,” John continued, the pain he was feeling evident in his voice. “That you could feel safe coming to me when you were upset, or frightened. For a while, you were doing that. Why did it stop?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“You do know. You always know. Emotions confuse and confound you, but you always know what they are; what they’re doing. You understand that love and jealousy and greed and anger are great motivators even if you don’t quite get why people feel them.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, his eyes still down.  
  
“You know what’s got you so upset. You know how it’s been making you act, and you know what I’m feeling about it all.”  
  
Sherlock reached out and took the mug from his hands, placing it carefully on the coffee table.  
  
“Yes,” he replied simply. “I do. Most of it.”  
  
“So, are you willing to share it with me?”  
  
Sherlock’s head tilted and he looked at John from the corner of his eye. “Some of it.” He spoke slowly, considering his words carefully. “I can’t tell you what’s been… on my mind. I’m sorry. I can’t. But I do know that I’ve been awful. You’ve been pushing and I’ve been pulling away. And I did one of the worst things I possibly could to you, and I know that you’re angry—furious--and I am truly, honestly sorry and wish that I hadn’t done it. John…” his voice broke.  
  
John turned and looked at him as the gathering tears threatened to overflow the unbelievable eyes. A peculiar calm had come over him as Sherlock spoke—finally opening up to him a bit. He knew that now—at that very moment—his love was being completely honest with him, and he found himself replaying his words in his head. He wanted to absorb them; to understand them absolutely.  
  
A thought occurred to him.  
  
“Sherlock,” he started cautiously. “You said that you know _most_ of it. What don’t you know?”  
  
“I don’t know if…” he paused, and then he looked straight into John’s dark eyes. He took a deep breath. “John, do you still love me?”  
  
“What?! God, Sherlock. Yes, of course I still love you!” He gripped the leg under his hand tightly. “How could you think that I don’t?”  
  
“I don’t understand how you can be angry with me and love me at the same time.”  
  
 _Oh, Christ, Sherlock. You really don’t get human nature, do you?_ “You idiot—I’m angry with you _because_ I love you.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him. There was silence while he processed this.  
  
And then—there was The Look—that the-last-piece-of-the-puzzle-just-dropped-into-place look.  
  
“Oh… Oh! OH! God, John. I get it. I actually, really understand. If you didn’t love me, it wouldn’t have hurt so much—it wouldn’t have mattered as much.” Clearly overwhelmed by his revelation, he fell back onto the sofa cushions, his head tipped back and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I didn’t… I’ve never truly understood that until now.”  
  
John smiled at him—a very tired, sweet smile. “There’s my brilliant love,” he said quietly. “I knew you’d get it eventually.”  
  
*  
  
They spent the remainder of the afternoon on the sofa together. John flicked on the telly, but neither of them really took note of what was on. Instead, they took turns looking at each other; examining. Observing.  
  
Sherlock was pale and exhausted and possibly the slightest bit nauseated, John noted. He needed something more substantial in his stomach than tea and jammie dodgers. He was stiff and sore and when he had taken his mug back, one of his knuckles started bleeding again. He also needed sleep; the dark circles under his eyes betrayed him.  
  
John’s heart rate had dropped; his hectic colour was fading. He kept his hand on Sherlock’s leg. It was steady and no longer fidgeting. His breathing was slow and deep. He had an almost-smile that softened his expression and made him look younger.  
  
Finally, John patted his knee and rose. Sherlock’s leg felt cold now. “I’m going to heat up some soup, and you’re going to have some, and then we’re going to bed.”  
  
“It’s barely six o’clock,” he pointed out.  
  
“Since when has the time of day mattered to you?”  
  
“I don’t know. It seemed like one of those things that… people care about.”  
  
“Other people,” the doctor corrected. “Not us.”  
  
John made them creamy tomato soup and Sherlock had two small bowls full. John supplemented his own with a sandwich, but if all his love wanted was the soup, that was fine. Sherlock ate slowly and moved slowly and it was past seven o’clock by the time they were both cleaned up and in bed. John made sure that Sherlock was comfortable and warm.  
  
Sherlock looked at him carefully. “You have more to say,” he realised.  
  
John chuckled. “Am I that obvious? Yes, I do.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
“I just want to be clear—I know you prefer to have some things spelled out, so I wanted to tell you this directly. I am still a bit angry with you. It’s going to take time for that to go away, and you’re just going to have to let me have the time.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“That does not mean that I don’t love you. I do. I always will.”  
  
Sherlock absorbed this.  
  
“There are other things that have been… off between us. And I’m not telling you this because I want to do anything right now, but I wanted to make it perfectly clear that I really hope to be naked and gloriously sweaty with you very soon.”  
  
“Oh. All right. Yes.”  
  
“And finally…” he paused, considering. They were both calm and content. Did he want to bring it up? He pondered. If not now, when? “I know what you did with all of our special things.”  
  
Sherlock’s face fell.  
  
“It’s all right. I don’t really understand why, except that you got upset because you thought that you were being a burden to me.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, unable to look him in the eye.  
  
“Even though I’ve told you repeatedly that you’re not.”  
  
They sat in silence for a moment.  
  
“Sherlock, do you know what I’ve needed recently?”  
  
A shake of dark curls.  
  
“I’ve needed to talk to you and hold you and kiss you and laugh with you.” He reached over and caught his chin in his hand, cradling his cheek. “And now, I need this.” He leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead. “Please. I need my sweet boy. I need to feed him and bathe him and change him into his cosy jimjams. I need to play blocks with him and colour with him and watch Postman Pat. I need to take care of him.”  
  
Sherlock turned his head back, hiding his face in the pillow.  
  
John waited, curling up protectively around him.  
  
There. There it was. He was shaking.  
  
“Come on, love. Let it out. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Daddy’s got you.” That did it. His baby boy began to cry in earnest and he held him even tighter, rocking him gently. “Oh, ‘Lock! There you are. I’ve missed you so much. You went away for a while and Daddy missed you very much. Don’t do that again, all right?”  
  
“’kay.”  
  
“My sweet boy.”  
  
*  
  
“I need… I want… Oh God…”  
  
He ripped off the thinner man’s clothing. Fuck it. He was rock hard and wanted—wanted—. He didn’t give a flying fuck. He wanted… yes.  
  
Insistent fingers prepared the space  
  
Not prettily  
  
Not thoroughly  
  
FUCK IT  
  
Insistent became rude  
  
Fingers—yes—fingers inside. Fuck the gasp of pain; the wriggle of resistance. He did not give a fuck, flying or otherwise.  
  
He withdrew his fingers and lined them up.  
  
And for the first, and possibly last time, John Watson fucked Sherlock Holmes in the way that the word implied. Hard and hot and furious and…  
  
 _Fucked you_  
  
 _The way you fucked me_  
  
 _The way you fucked someone else_  
  
 _You_  
  
 _YOU_  
  
Fuck going to come going to balls tightening sweat glistening body rigid so alert so…  
  
*  
  
John woke up and felt absolutely sick about what he had dreamt.  
  
  
  



	33. Chapter 33

“That was lovely. Thank you for taking me.”  
  
“What? I can’t hear you.”  
  
They were being jostled by the post-concert crowd as they made their way through the lobby. Sherlock kept looking over his shoulder, trying to keep John in sight. It was rough and they got separated. Exasperated, the taller man reached out one long arm and grabbed John’s hand.  
  
 _Well, that was new,_ John reflected, but he was grateful for it. Sherlock ploughed through the crowd like a shark sailing through a school of fish and had them out on the pavement in less than a minute. He finally paused and turned, but instead of simply dropping John’s hand, he switched his grip and continued to hold on.  
  
“That’s better,” he huffed out. He shuddered. John squeezed his hand sympathetically. He knew what crowds did to the man. “Now, what were you saying?”  
  
“The concert. Fantastic. Thanks for taking me.”  
  
“Not your usual thing, but I thought you’d like it.” Sherlock smiled in that shy way he did when John praised him for doing a good thing.  
  
“Expand my horizons a bit, yeah?”  
  
“Anything’s better than… what was that a few nights ago? Bon Homme?”  
  
“Bon Jovi, you brat.” John smiled at him warmly. “Hey, how about a little something before we go home?”  
  
“If you wish.”  
  
Neither of them noticed the warm smile a female couple gave them as they headed toward a late-night coffee house, hands still clasped.  
  
*  
  
“Tell me more about the music,” John requested over whatever warm, gooey, chocolate thing he was thoroughly enjoying. Sherlock had gotten a very nice-looking fruit tart and was picking pieces of the glazed cherries off the top of it and popping them in his mouth with his fingers. John just shook his head at such behaviour. As long as Sherlock was eating, he really didn’t care what anyone else thought.  
  
Sherlock launched into an explanation of the music they had just heard, placing it in its historical context and bringing in points about the composers’ lives that impacted on their music. John found it fascinating—not just the information, but the way Sherlock was so involved in it. That was something John had discovered very early on about his mad mate. Music engaged and enthralled him like almost nothing else.  
  
“Have you ever considered having your compositions played—like tonight, by an orchestra?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock frowned, not in anger but in puzzlement. “Well, no. I only compose for violin and piano. The rest of the orchestra would look a bit silly just sitting there.”  
  
John laughed and Sherlock grinned. It was so rare that he made a joke, and the image was definitely funny.  
  
“We could give them crosswords to work out,” John suggested, and Sherlock chuckled. Oh, that lovely, deep chuckle. John reached out across the table and laid his steady hand on the thin, white one. “But seriously, do you ever want to hear your compositions performed in a concert hall, like tonight, instead of just what you record yourself?”  
  
Sherlock sobered a bit, but he didn’t pull his hand away. “I’ve done that, you know,” he supplied. “At university. It was a fairly common thing—students performing their own—or others’—compositions. Concerts and whatnot.”  
  
“Very different than my school experience,” John pointed out a bit drily.  
  
“Oh, you were all rugby and beer and… mates,” the dark-haired man commented thoughtfully. “I imagine you were quite impressive on the field. And in the pub,” he added mischievously.  
  
“I found my niche, yes,” the doctor chuckled. “And then there was medical school and the army, of course. That was a bit different.”  
  
“Not much,” Sherlock pointed out.  
  
“Well, there were the dead bodies and the bombs.” John sounded so solemn that Sherlock actually laughed out loud, and eventually his ex-army captain joined in.  
  
*  
  
They strolled along the pavement. Sherlock seemed in no hurry to summon a taxi, so John strode along next to him. It had been hours of pure delight—Sherlock in an excellent, gentle mood; the enriching and stimulating music—even the late-hour dessert. The only thing that could be better would be—well, a serial killer was always a perk.  
  
 _Oh, John Watson, you have led a peculiar life,_ he thought. _You thrive on what most people try to avoid—mayhem and injuries and explosions and the occasional head in the fridge. And Sherlock._ Most people tried to avoid Sherlock Holmes. They would only approach him when they needed to, he realized. Other than Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade—the closest people to friends he had other than himself—no one really ever sought him out. Not even his brother. Not even his parents. They loved him, of course, but communication was rare and rather needs-driven. He was the only person who seemed to want—to love—to need—to be with the lunatic.  
  
So what did that make him?  
  
Well, whatever it was, it was fine with him.  
  
*  
  
Eventually they had gotten a cab and were now settled in their chairs with a nightcap—Scotch for John and a glass of wine for Sherlock. The detective was still in a delightful, open mood. He had picked up the thread of his conversation about the music they had heard that evening and had John captivated.  
  
And eventually that led back to John’s inquiry about having his compositions performed.  
  
“I’ve gotten quite a bit more sophisticated in my compositions, of course,” he mulled.  
  
“I’m sure. Life experiences and all that,” John affirmed.  
  
“And a great deal of music lessons courtesy of my parents,” he admitted.  
  
“Nothing wrong with that. I remember ages ago—some class—when the instructor pointed out that to play better tennis, you couldn’t do it on your own. You could study all you wanted, but if you didn’t play against someone better than yourself, you’d never actually improve.”  
  
“That’s a good comparison. Hearing how other musicians interpreted my compositions was illuminating. It definitely had an impact on my work.”  
  
“Do you want more wine?”  
  
“Yes, please.”   
  
John recharged both of their glasses, settling comfortably back into his chair and taking a sip of his Scotch (which was lovely and a treat from Sherlock because of the mould-behind-the-head incident). He examined his sweet man, who was staring intently into his glass. He smiled. “What are you thinking about?” he teased.  
  
“The acoustic properties of crystal. Why?”  
  
“Can you guess what I’m thinking about?”  
  
“I never guess.”  
  
“So tell me.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him closely and nodded. “You want us to get into bed together, quite naked, and sleep with as much skin as possible touching, and in the morning we will make rather vigorous love until the sheets are halfway off the mattress and Mrs Hudson is complaining about the noise.”  
  
John grinned. “That was fantastic. You are brilliant. You are amazing.”  
  
“Stop talking and take me to bed.”  
  
  
  



	34. Chapter 34

Mrs Hudson was done complaining about the noise. The sheets were halfway off the bed and both of them needed a shower.  
  
Was it time? John wondered. Well, if this wasn’t the time, it never would be. “Sherlock, can I ask you a question?”  
  
“Can I stop you?” he asked back in amusement. He loved it when John was like this—relaxed and happy and not nagging him about eating or sleeping or wiping the kitchen down with disinfectant. He was relieved that taking him to the concert had gone so well. And the morning’s activities hadn’t been half bad.  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“So ask.”  
  
“Have you truly not been in any other relationship? Just me and William?”  
  
“William… that wasn’t…”  
  
“Did you want it to be?” John interjected.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Have you ever wanted to be with anyone else the way we are?”  
  
Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully. “No,” he replied quietly.  
  
“So what is it about me?”  
  
The thin man smiled a bit. “Fishing for compliments?” he teased.  
  
“Absolutely,” the doctor agreed. “I like it when you stroke my ego.”  
  
“Was it your _ego_ I was supposed to be stroking…?”  
  
The sheets ended up completely off the bed.  
  
*  
  
The shower was long and John shuddered in delight as Sherlock’s long, sudsy fingers ran through his hair. He returned the favour, Sherlock tipping his head back so he could reach.  
  
They dried off and dressed languidly. John wandered into the kitchen and made coffee and toast while Sherlock checked his website for messages.  
  
“Nothing?” the doctor inquired unnecessarily, noting the pout.  
  
“Dull,” his darling commented as he poked one long finger into the newly-opened ginger marmalade. He stuck his sticky digit into his mouth to take a tentative taste while John watched in bemusement. He really was an overgrown four-year-old sometimes, wasn’t he?  
  
“Any good?” he inquired politely.  
  
“Mmm.” The detective poked his finger back into the jar and offered it to the shorter man, who teasingly stuck just the tip of his tongue out and lapped at it the tiniest bit. “Mmm,” Sherlock commented again as he observed the tongue quite intently.  
  
“That’s not very hygienic,” the doctor pointed out, “sticking your grubby fingers in there. I don’t know where they’ve been.”  
  
Sherlock smiled wickedly at him. “You most certainly do know where those fingers have been, and I know where that tongue has been, and after breakfast I suggest that we review the situation very carefully indeed.”  
  
*  
  
John wondered what Mrs Hudson thought about the number of showers they took some days.  
  
*  
  
“Why the _hell_ did you leave me behind!?” John shouted. “You are such a dickhead sometimes!”  
  
“I said that I was sorry,” the detective mumbled.  
  
He _had_ left John behind—not deliberately—and it had not gone well. He had taken off after the suspect without a word to the doctor, with whom he was standing back to back, each observing a different portion of the street. He did think that his companion would notice and follow—at some point.  
  
Which he had, and had caught up at an impressive speed, really, but not before Sherlock had caught up with the suspect.  
  
Caught up with the suspect’s fist, to be exact.  
  
So John had rounded the corner at top speed, following the sound of shrieks of panic—it was a fairly good bet that that was the direction in which his maniac had headed—in time to be greeted with the sight of one rather dazed consulting detective sprawled out on his bum.  
  
“That way, John!” he had had the presence of mind to shout, pointing with the hand that wasn’t cradling his cheek.  
  
“Right,” John had muttered more to himself than anyone as, without even slowing down, he headed in the direction that his maniac had indicated.  
  
It was getting to be almost routine, John reflected as the suspect was handcuffed and ushered into the back of a police car. As he took off after the suspect, he had realised that he didn’t really have a chance of catching up with him, so, thinking on his feet, he had cast his eyes ahead of both of them. Perfect. Still headed toward him full tilt, he veered slightly to his right and the suspect, glancing back at him, lurched to his left.  
  
And directly into the broad-shouldered figure of the constable on his beat.  
  
Sherlock had caught up shortly after that and after rattling off a few points—just enough to get the man into handcuffs and a DI on the way to the scene—he praised John for his quick thinking.  
  
Still annoyed, the older man had growled at him and then turned away. As he answered another constable’s questions, he had deliberately not looked over at the detective, who was doing a spectacularly bad job of explaining himself and the situation to the DI who had appeared. Ordinarily that was the point at which Doctor John Watson would usually step in, lay a calming hand the other man’s thin arm, and with a polite and slightly deferential smile introduce himself, apologise for the git, and get the investigation moving smoothly forward again.  
  
Ordinarily, that’s what John would do.  
  
Instead, with a nod of agreement to contact the police if he had any additional information, he glanced over his shoulder at the slight ruckus in the general vicinity of Consulting Detective Dickhead, shrugged his shoulders, and headed for the closest Tube station.  
  
*  
  
The argument didn’t really get going until they were both home.  
  
John had beaten him back to the flat—apparently arguing with detective inspectors took some time—and was banging about in the kitchen making himself some tea when the tall, dark-haired figure slunk in.  
  
The argument had begun before Sherlock had even hung up his coat. John came out of the kitchen and shouted at Sherlock’s back while he was doing so, and Sherlock had muttered his response while still in that position.  
  
It was when he turned to face him that John really exploded.  
  
The mark left by the suspect’s fist was just starting to turn a variety of colours in the red and purple range; it was obvious that the lower edge of his orbital socket had been caught. There was some swelling already.  
  
“Oh, shit, Sherlock. Let me take a look,” he had immediately requested, moving forward with concern.  
  
“It’s fine, John.” He shook his head and tried to step around him.  
  
“Probably, but let me check your eye. Any problems with your vision?”  
  
“No.”  
  
The doctor detected the hesitation. “You’re lying,” he accused. “Sit down and let me look at you.”  
  
“No. I said that I’m all right.”  
  
And it was right then that John had had enough.  
  
“Fine. FINE! You say you’re all right, then you must know all about it. Know exactly what to do to take care of yourself, yeah?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied steadily. “Paracetamol and ice for the first two days, then warm compresses, and I’m to tell you if I have double vision or the blurriness persists.”  
  
John blinked.  
  
“Am I correct?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, you are,” the doctor replied hesitantly. “Very clever.”  
  
“So I don’t need you to take care of me,” he added.  
  
“I see.”  
  
Sherlock had no idea whatsoever what to do or say when John grabbed his jacket and walked out.  
  
*  
  
Damn. Where was John? The tablets and cold packs weren’t doing much for the pain and absolutely nothing for the blurred vision and he felt rather ill on top of it all. He tried lying down, but that made him feel even worse, so now he was propped up in their bed, attempting to read with one eye. He wasn’t sure if it was his efforts or the injury itself that was giving him a headache.  
  
Now he really did feel quite ill. Damn. Deep breaths.  
  
John poked his head into the bedroom just as he lunged for the bin.  
  
Oh, good.  
  
*  
  
“You are a great idiot,” John commented. They were in the bathroom and Sherlock was rinsing his mouth. “Why didn’t you phone or text me when you started feeling ill?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t reply. Tidied up, he allowed the shorter man to usher him back into the bedroom and help him into bed. He had already taken care of the bin and it was empty and clean and placed next to the bed.  
  
“You’ll be all right,” he announced, sitting on the bed by his legs and patting his leg through the blanket. “There’s no sign of hyphema. Just lie still for a bit, yeah?”  
  
The lanky man whimpered.  
  
“You going to be sick again?” John asked solicitously, reaching for the bin.  
  
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He accepted the bin, just in case.  
  
“You are ridiculous, you know,” John sighed. “I’m going to get you some water. All right?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, which was the wrong thing to do, and then John accepted the bin back and cleaned it a second time.  
  
*  
  
Eventually everything calmed down a bit. Sherlock’s head stopped aching and he shut both eyes and his stomach started to settle and he felt himself drift off…  
  
No.  
  
He couldn’t.  
  
“Sherlock, get back into bed!” The older man snapped as his mate stumbled down the hallway and into the kitchen.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Sherlock told him. John’s mouth fell open in shock.  
  
“Now?” he echoed. “You want to talk about our relationship—now?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
*  
  
John didn’t really know what to do. He led his sweetheart back into the bedroom and got him tucked in—that was his stipulation. He sat where he had been seated before—hand back on the thin leg and bin at the ready. “You wanted to talk?” he prompted.  
  
There was a pause. Sherlock swallowed, took a deep breath, and finally came out with it—all of it.  
  
“John… what is our relationship? Is it a relationship? Is that the right word? If it is, how long have we been in it? How much longer will we be in it? Will it last? How long will it last? Is it supposed to last? Is what I feel for you love? Do you love me? Does it feel the same for you as it does for me? Do you love me when I leave you behind and am rude and conceited and when you’re taking care of me and when I use and when I can’t eat and when I’m being sick? Will you stop loving me if I keep doing idiotic things like that?   
  
“John, what are we to each other?”  
  
John was speechless.  
  
*  
  
Gradually; carefully—John began to attempt to respond to Sherlock’s verbal outburst.   
  
He started with the easiest bit—easiest for him, at least.  
  
“Okay. Yes, we are in a relationship. I think it’s safe to say that it started after…” he paused and licked his lips. This was hard. Talking about it was always hard. “… after you solved Jordan and William’s murders. You were in really bad shape after that, and it was then that I realised that yes, I do love you and that yes, you do love me, and I suspect that it does feel the same for both of us.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, his eyes locked on his blogger’s kind, worn face.  
  
“Let’s see… Yes. Yes, I do love you when you’re being a complete wanker and a total dickhead. I love you when you’re calling everyone including me an idiot. I love you when you’re rude and you leave me behind and even when you leave an empty glass of milk under the sofa for a week.”  
  
Sherlock was afraid to even breathe.  
  
“No matter how angry I get, I never stop loving you.” He paused and considered. “What did I miss?” he finally asked.  
  
“Will you ever stop?” Sherlock’s voice was so low that John barely heard him. His eyes opened wide.  
  
“Will I ever stop loving you?” he attempted to clarify.  
  
“Yes. Will you ever stop loving me and when you do, will you leave?”  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock.” John lunged forward and took the thin figure into his arms. “How could you think that?”  
  
“People leave,” he replied simply. “Things end and people leave.”  
  
“How can you not know that I’m never going to leave you?” John was genuinely gobsmacked. Is that what had been bothering Sherlock all those months?  
  
Sherlock trembled. Did he? Did he really know that? “I just don’t know that,” he admitted.   
  
“Oh, my sweetheart! I promise—PROMISE—to be here for you and with you always and forever and that means with all of your madness and experiments and cases and heads-in-the-fridge and it means in case we’re ever separated and it means until we’re both too old to do all this and then it means that I will tolerate your weird obsession with bees because I can’t—I won’t—I can’t _breathe_ without you, Sherlock. Without you—I’m not. I don’t want to be. I, John Watson, doctor and ex-army captain and fucking poofter and madly in love with you—will never, ever voluntarily leave your side.”  
  
*  
  
They lay in the bed together until they both fell asleep, Sherlock under the covers and John on top. Neither one of them said another word.  
  
They didn’t need to.  
  
  
  



	35. Chapter 35

Spinning. Things were beginning to spin out of control. Each case brought Sherlock more fame—more notoriety—more exposure. Between helping Sherlock on the actual cases, writing them up, and being present at endless press conferences, John had given up on working at the surgery. Instead, he seemed to have carved out a new career as the amateur detective’s body guard, press secretary, and public conscience. Nothing he hadn’t been doing before, but now people—reporters—were taking notice.  
  
He was getting tired of the phrase “confirmed bachelor.”  
  
“Why does it bother you so much?” Mrs Hudson asked gently as she put a plate of scones on her kitchen table in front of him. “They’re right, after all.”  
  
“I just think that it’s none of anyone’s business,” John explained, gratefully taking a mouthful of her good, hot tea.  
  
“You mean that _other_ things aren’t anyone else’s business,” she suggested. “And if they’ve figured out that much…”  
  
“ _None_ of it is anyone else’s business,” he stated rather more adamantly than might have been appropriate. Their landlady winced as he slammed his mug down onto the table. “Sorry.”  
  
She patted his hand. “It’s all right. Both of you must be exhausted by all the attention.”  
  
“Yeah. That’s what it is. We could stand with a break.”  
  
“Any chance of getting him to go on holiday?” she wondered. “Honestly, I could do with a break myself—people at the door at all hours. Last week I caught someone going through my bins!”  
  
“Oh, I am really sorry, Mrs H,” John responded automatically, but then his eyes opened wide in realisation. “Last week?” he demanded. “What day, exactly?”  
  
“Erm… right before it rained. Tuesday.”  
  
“Oh, thank God,” he responded fervently.  
  
“Why?” She paused and considered. “Oh, John…” she put her hand up, covering her mouth in alarm. “The packaging?”  
  
The doctor nodded emphatically. She was referring to a few new purchases that he had made for Little Sherlock—items that otherwise they would really have no business buying.  
  
“It’s all right, though. I know it was raining when I put it out there.”  
  
“Oh, my,” she replied. “We’ll have to do something about that in future.”  
  
He nodded grimly. “Not just that, either. We— _he_ just doesn’t need _any_ of to be made public knowledge—not the food issues; not the really black moods. Not the playing. I know I touch on some of it in my blog—not eating or sleeping during a case. I realise now that I can’t include so much private information.”  
  
“When you started it, you could hardly have known what was going to happen—him becoming famous and all that,” she pointed out.  
  
“Thank you for that,” he told her sincerely. He had actually been feeling horribly guilty about just that and less and less often he included any sort of mention of their personal lives and habits, but it was clearly too late. He had even considered going back and editing some of his earlier posts, but it was probably a moot point. “We’re going to have to be more careful.”  
  
“I’ll keep more of an eye on things down here,” she offered.  
  
“That would be wonderful.” He smiled a bit sadly at her before picking up his mug.  
  



	36. Chapter 36

“Sherlock?” John called out as he let himself into the flat. “Who the hell was that?” On his way in, he had nearly been flattened by a woman rushing down the stairs. She had been moving so quickly he had had little time to observe her—the only detail he had absorbed was that she was angry rather than upset. It was a relatively easy thing to discern—the majority of people rushing out of the flat in that fashion tended to fall into one of the two camps.  
  
There was no answer.  
  
He frowned as he dropped the shopping onto the kitchen table and removed and hung up his coat up.  
  
“Sherlock?” he called again. A quick glance confirmed that he wasn’t in the sitting room. The kitchen was tidy, which pleased him; he had left strict instructions to move at least half of the chemistry equipment off the table. He had obviously been busy while John was working, as he had been the night before. John had been vaguely aware that he had finally crashed at about three in the morning and had gotten up with John, at 6 o’clock, and back at it.   
  
So, virtually no sleep, an early morning, then a decent attempt at tidying and a visitor—maybe he was sleeping, he reasoned. With that thought in mind, he gently opened the door to their bedroom.  
  
Yes. There he was. He had crashed on top of the duvet…  
  
John frowned.  
  
He was on top of the duvet, dressed in a dark-blue shirt and darker-blue trousers. He was lying curled on his side, his back to the door.  
  
And tucked into his arm was his stuffed bee.  
  
Oh.  
  
What had happened? “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”  
  
His mate turned his head slowly. “Oh, John. Erm… nothing.” He casually released the bee and sat up. “Just a bit tired.”  
  
“So that woman who nearly knocked me arse over teakettle was nothing?”  
  
“Nothing at all.”  
  
John looked carefully at his face. “All right,” he said, graciously accepting this statement at face value. “Why don’t you lie down again. You look knackered.”  
  
“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. He dropped back on the pillows and turned onto his side, facing away from John.  
  
The doctor turned back to partially close the door and caught him as he reached out and retrieved his bee.  
  
*  
  
John sighed. He was just not in the mood to cook. Instead, he picked up his mobile and ordered some dinner. He went back to the bedroom to attempt to rouse his mate. He wasn’t sleeping exactly, but he reacted sluggishly to him. He frowned and, as he had done earlier, released his grip on his bee, but he kept his back toward the door.  
  
The doctor sat next to him and rubbed his back a bit. “Sherlock,” he crooned, sweetly, cuddling him. “Sweetheart, I need you to get up and have some dinner. All right?”  
  
Reluctantly the younger man rolled onto his back and sat up.  
  
“Come on,” John invited, standing up and putting his hand out to him. Sherlock allowed himself to be tugged out of bed and into the sitting room, leaving his bee behind.  
  
“What would you like to drink?” he asked, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. He went into the kitchen. He poured a beer for himself and milk for his sweetheart.  
  
The bell rang and he ran down to accept the delivery, tipping the driver. He put the bag on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and unpacked their dinner. He dished out normal portions for himself—pasta, salad. He cut up and put a small portion of pasta in a bowl for Sherlock. “All right, my love. You need to have some dinner.” Sherlock picked up his spoon and they ate quietly.   
  
*  
  
“Any plans for this evening?” he inquired. Sherlock had actually done the washing up. He was being suspiciously well-behaved—and quiet. Something was definitely up.  
  
He shrugged and wandered over to his chair, sliding gracefully into it and taking up the newspaper.  
  
“Hey, you never said—who was that woman you ran out of here before?” John asked. He was already in his chair with his laptop, checking responses to his latest blog. _God, Harry, you should not be allowed internet access after a certain number of drinks._  
  
“What makes you think I ‘ran her out’?”  
  
“Just a theory.”  
  
Sherlock gifted him with The Glare.   
  
“So what happened?”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Oh, all right. Client. Well. Almost client. She phoned and then came here. Something about a lost ring or something.”  
  
“Did you solve her problem before she got here?”  
  
Sherlock nodded a bit absently.  
  
“So what ticked her off?”  
  
Sherlock had raised the newspaper up in front of his face again. Okay. Conversation over. Something was definitely up.  
  
*  
  
The doctor glanced over at his flatmate periodically. As the evening wore on, he didn’t look any better. Finally, he gave up.  
  
“I’m going to bed. Coming?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head, not even making eye contact, and the doctor sadly got himself ready for bed.  
  
They would talk about what had happened in the morning.  
  



	37. Chapter 37

Morning, he had to remember when it came to Sherlock, could mean three o’clock. He groaned and looked up. Sure enough, Sherlock was sitting on the bed, still dressed. John rolled over and curled around the bony body next to him. “What’s up?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.  
  
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”  
  
So, stroppy. Oh, good. No point in beating around the bush. He looked up; Sherlock was staring into the dark room, his ethereal features shadowed by the soft glow of the nightlight. “Sherlock,” he said quietly but firmly, settling his hand on one thin thigh, “what happened today?”  
  
A scowl. Silence. John sighed; did he really want to have this conversation at three o’clock in the morning?  
  
Sure. Why not.  
  
“Sherlock, when I got home you seemed a bit off, and that woman was furious. Did that have something to do with it?”  
  
He sat in silence for a moment. Finally, he huffed impatiently and rumbled, “I’m not the best judge of these things, but there is actually something about personal space around strangers, is there not?”  
  
What the _fuck_? “What are you talking about?” John asked in alarm, unwrapping himself and sitting up.   
  
“I am attempting to explain. Do pay attention.” Sherlock was rather pointedly not looking at him.  
  
“Okay. Explain, and I will pay attention.”  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath. “As I said, an almost-client phoned and then she came up. She began telling me an extremely boring story about a lost dog—”  
  
“Earlier you said a lost ring.”  
  
“Both. The dog swallowed the ring, then got dognapped.”  
  
John blinked. “Oh,” was all he could think to say. Sherlock was silent as well. “And then what?” John finally prodded, not wanting Sherlock to get lost in his own thoughts.  
  
“I was standing by the fireplace,” he continued in a very odd tone of voice. “I had her sitting in The Chair. And then she… stood up, and she came over to me.”  
  
John began to rub Sherlock’s back, feeling every bone.  
  
“And she was wearing a positively horrid perfume. It must be one of those new ones they name after celebrities. I didn’t recognise it. It made me feel ill.”  
  
John’s hand stilled and he wrapped his arms around his sweetheart instead.  
  
“And she was quite tall—taller than you (not that that’s difficult)—and she was wearing awful court shoes with ludicrously high heels that she clearly didn’t need and she just had this odd look and horrid lipstick that did not flatter her at all and she had just refreshed it before she came up and her dress was very tight and short and quite unflattering because who needs to see the backs of anyone’s knees and too much jewellery (less the missing ring of course) and I could smell the product in her hair and her lipstick and her makeup and her deodorant and she was perspiring and she was so close too close right there and I was up against the fireplace and it was just this wall of horrendous—”  
  
“Sherlock! Breathe.” Sherlock obeyed, with difficulty. “So she got really close and all those odours bothered you?” Sherlock’s sense of smell was extraordinarily sensitive, and coupled with his tetchy stomach, could lead to disaster (not ever at a crime scene, John noted—but a splash of aftershave _once_ had the man pretty much dry heaving).  
  
“She said she liked me and read about me and had photos of me in her bedroom and she said I was… sexy and she wanted to know what my hair felt like.”  
  
Oh, God. One of those. “Sweetheart,” John finally said, much more calmly than he felt. “We’ve talked about those people.” God, he hated fans like that. They were the ones who would interrupt them when they were out at dinner, or come knocking on the door at midnight. They had no idea what to do about it and it drove them mad, but most of them seemed harmless. “She was just a bit star struck; is that it?” he added.  
  
“I don’t think that’s quite it, John.”  
  
Sometimes they would even gather at a crime scene, interfering with the investigation. Alarm bells began to ring in John’s head. “Then what was it?” he asked hesitantly.  
  
“She... I can’t tell you.” Sherlock’s voice was tight and harsh, his head now down to his chest.  
  
The alarm bells that had been sounding in the doctor’s head suddenly became a deafening cacophony. “Sherlock, why is this so hard?” he asked, feeling sick. “What else happened? Did she… Sherlock, did she _touch_ you?”  
  
Sherlock shuddered. His mouth clamped shut. He nodded.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said slowly. “Where did she touch you?” Sherlock’s overly-sensitive system could have interpreted a pat on the shoulder as an invasion—ironic considering how little respect he had for the personal space of others.  
  
Oh, please, let it be Sherlock over-reacting.  
  
“She…” And then Sherlock startled him by reaching out for John’s hand and pulling it towards himself. And then he placed it somewhere unmistakable. “She grabbed me,” he whispered, “here.”  
  
“What the FUCK--?! She grabbed you—there?”  
  
John had not been that angry in a long time.  
  
“I didn’t… I’m sorry. I didn’t want her to. I pushed her away. I know I’m not supposed to push people but I wanted her away and I didn’t want her touching me there and she… she wanted things and I don’t understand what people want sometimes and I swear I didn’t do anything I was a good boy only you and Uncle Greg are allowed to touch me there and I hated it and she got angry at me for pushing her but it wasn’t all right was it what she did and you told me that it was all right if I didn’t want someone touching me there and I didn’t want her to didn’t want her there—”  
  
Sherlock began to rock himself.  
  
Oh, God. It was worse than he had imagined, and now Sherlock had retreated into the only safe place he knew—his Little self.   
  
Okay. He had to deal with it. Despite his fury—which was a physical pain in his chest—all he wanted to do was to comfort his poor, sweet boy. So frightened and alone with a… a _predator,_ really. Age didn’t matter. Gender didn’t matter. For anyone to do that to anyone else—that was sick.  
  
He wrapped himself around his poor boy and rocked him. “Oh, my darling. My good boy. No. No. She was horrible and wrong and you did exactly the right thing. I’m so sorry that I wasn’t here to take care of you. Was that when she ran out—after you pushed her?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and John could see the gleam of tears in his eyes in the soft light, but they did not flow down his cheeks. Somehow him not crying was frightening. He wasn’t letting go enough. So he continued rocking his baby boy and soothing him. It was useless. He wasn’t crying, but he also wasn’t talking or cuddling. He remained sitting up, stiff and miserable, staring into the dimly lit bedroom.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart, you need to go to sleep,” he murmured after a while. “I know what to do. Come on.”  
  
*  
  
Daddy was so clever. He pulled him off bed and led him into the kitchen and made him a bottle of warm milk. He brought him back into the bedroom and had him lie back on the bed and handed him his bee. He shut his eyes and crushed his bee to his chest and Daddy had taken his tight clothing off him and did Daddy things and then he was warm and cosy in his night-time pants and jimjams.  
  
And then Daddy cuddled him and had him lie down against his strong, broad chest and there was his nice bottle and that was good. He was safe with Daddy. And somewhere very deep in his Mind Palace, around too many turns and dark hallways, was the nasty lady’s name and if he was smart he wouldn’t tell it to Daddy because Daddy would probably want to find her and shout at her and that usually led to Uncle Greg and Big Brother having to do something called Paperwork. So he wouldn’t tell Daddy the nasty lady’s name and he would be very clever and delete her number from his phone before Daddy thought to check it.  
  
And Daddy was there and his bee and he was  
  
He was so tired  
  
He was so tired of being him  
  
He was so tired of being Sherlock Holmes  
  
All the time  
  
It was exhausting  
  
And not particularly pleasant  
  
And  
  
  
  



	38. Chapter 38

“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” he had demanded as the shorter man efficiently screwed the simple device to the frame and the door.  
  
“Making a safe place for you,” he had responded calmly, brushing a bit of sawdust off the new hardware.  
  
“What are you talking about?”  
  
John finally turned to look at him. “My love,” he said quietly. “Something’s been upsetting you lately, and there are times when I can’t calm you down. I want a place where I’ll know you’ll be safe.”  
  
“How is having a lock on the outside of the door going to keep me safe? Wait. Safe from what?” Sherlock scowled.  
  
“God, Sherlock. I mean, I need a place where I know that you’ll be safe from _yourself._ ”  
  
*  
  
The outbursts had been happening more and more frequently. Sherlock would veer between rude and unbearable, with extra helpings of viciousness. They were happening not just while on cases, dealing with victims, but while out at dinner, in the lab, in the morgue, and most disturbingly while at home when it was just the two of them.  
  
The latest had not just concerned but truly frightened John. He had been out doing a few errands and had left Sherlock researching burn marks left in the skin by various ligatures. He knew that Sherlock had done that before, but for some reason had decided that he needed to differentiate more clearly between natural hemp and nylon rope. Fine.  
  
When he got home, though, Sherlock was not there. No note, no text. Damn.  
  
He didn’t really start to worry for the first six hours.  
  
A few texts:  
  
 _Where are you_  
  
 _Coming home for dinner?_  
  
 _Do you need me_  
  
*  
  
Then a few messages:  
  
 _I’ve been home for hours. What are you up to?_  
  
 _Are you all right? I’m getting worried._  
  
 _Damn it, Sherlock, where the fuck are you?_  
  
*  
  
Shit. Twelve hours.  
  
Three o’clock in the morning. Why was it always three o’clock?  
  
He was pale and wobbly; his eyes were watering. His hands shook as he hung up his coat.  
  
“Should I even bother to ask?” John spit out.  
  
Sherlock whirled around in shock. He hadn’t seen John sitting in Sherlock’s chair in the dark.  
  
John was glaring so hard his eyes hurt.  
  
Sherlock tipped over and hit the floor so hard John was surprised that he didn’t awaken Mrs Hudson—not that he was thinking about that at that moment. He was out of the chair and on the floor next to the pale, shaking mess in an instant.  
  
“What did you take?” he demanded.  
  
“You can’t… I won’t tell. You’re spying on me for my brother and I won’t tell!” Sherlock attempted to sit up.  
  
“Oh, shit, Sherlock. Seriously, what did you take?” He helped the thin man to get himself semi-upright, taking his pulse at the same time.  
  
“Not… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…” He rubbed at his eyes.  
  
“You didn’t mean to what?” John asked gently.  
  
Sherlock suddenly grabbed at John. “John will be so disappointed,” he tried to explain. “I’ve been trying so hard not to—for him—and now he’ll be terribly disappointed and angry. I didn’t mean to… hurt him.”  
  
“It’s all right,” John replied gently. “He knows you didn’t mean to.”  
  
*  
  
“Get out!” Another six hours and Sherlock was fighting and throwing things and John was so very tired of this but at least he was home and talking and breathing.  
  
Yes, he was breathing.  
  
God, what if he—what if he hadn’t come home? What if he wasn’t breathing?  
  
*  
  
“Sweetheart?” John called out as he walked down the hallway. He had been out getting some food-including some bananas and apples and he wanted nothing more than to slice them up and present the sweet pieces to his love on a small plate and encourage him to eat even just a few bites.  
  
The bedroom door was open—fine—but the bathroom door was shut.  
  
Shit.  
  
He didn’t hesitate.   
  
The sight was so familiar but it still made his stomach drop and his heart pound and his head ache.  
  
“Oh, my love,” he sighed, sinking down next to him on the cold tile and carefully extracting the scalpel from his fingers.  
  
What the hell was happening?  
  
“Go away, John.”  
  
*  
  
“You haven’t done that in a while,” he said gently. “Why now?”  
  
“Get out shut up go away!”  
  
He had managed to clear the entire desk in one sweep of a long arm. In the process he managed to impale himself on a letter opener. He wouldn’t allow John to look at it.  
  
*  
  
“God, why am I tortured with such idiots?” he bellowed.  
  
John kept his mouth shut as he cleaned up the broken plate and spattered food. He was aware that one of the shards had hit Sherlock’s bare foot. He was equally aware that his love would not admit it, even when the doctor pointed out the trail of bloody toe marks.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock, please. We need to talk.”  
  
“You mean that you want to talk and you want me to listen.”  
  
“Well, yes.”  
  
“No!”  
  
The dent in the wall was barely noticeable but the impact raised a bruise on the side of the pale hand.  
  
*  
  
So John had cleared the bedroom of anything heavy, or sharp, or dangerous in any way, and he had purchased and installed the simple bolt on the outside of the door, and now when his love spun out of control he would grasp both of his hands, gently direct him onto the bed, and shut and latch the door.  
  
And then he would sit and wait for the shouting to stop.  
  
  
  



	39. Chapter 39

“John, I need to speak to you.” Mrs Hudson beckoned to him from her alcove.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“That’s what I’d like to know. Come in here.” She ushered him into her flat and steered him directly into the sitting room. She pointed firmly at the sofa and he sat, trying to puzzle her out the entire time. She seated herself at the edge of her own armchair, and as soon as she did, her hands twisted together. “What’s wrong with Sherlock?” she blurted out.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Oh, John. I’m not deaf. He’s been having absolute temper tantrums lately. Shouting and throwing things and—crying. That’s not like him. I mean, yes, of course he does tend to shout—and throw things—” she paused, then shook her head. “No. This is different. He sounds so _frightened_.”  
  
“You’ve been hearing that? I’m sorry.”  
  
“Oh, I’m not upset about the noise. I’m worried sick about him. He’s been so on edge lately, and then I hear him—and you. Things are clearly not all right.”  
  
John sat for a moment, looking down at his hands. He sighed. “No. You’re right. He’s not all right.”  
  
“What’s the matter with him? Is it a case? Or no case?” She knew that a bored Sherlock was a dangerous thing.  
  
“I’d love to tell you. I would. But I don’t know,” the doctor admitted.  
  
“ _You_ don’t know?”  
  
“This time, no. He’s got something hanging over him, and I’ve been begging him to tell me what it is, and he won’t. He just throws a fit and walks away from me.”  
  
“Is he… you know…”  
  
“Using? No... Not now. Whatever it is, it’s got his full attention.”  
  
“What can we do?”  
  
John smiled sadly at her. “Honestly, I don’t know. Talking to him never works. I’ve tried distracting him—new cases; experiments. Playing. Nothing helps.” He ran his hands down his face and groaned in frustration.  
  
“So what will you do?”  
  
“Right now, I’m just going to give him his head. I mean, I’ll make sure he’s not using or anything, and I’ll try to get him to eat and sleep when I can, but I think forcing the issue is just going to make it worse.” She nodded in understanding and support. “And when he asks for it—when he really seems to need it—I’ll just have to let him scream it out, and I’ll take care of him when he’s done. Now, speaking of, I’ve got to get upstairs.” He rose.  
  
“Oh, of course. Thank you, John. You’re so good to him.”  
  
John paused, his back to her. “I just want to take care of my little boy.”  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock…” he attempted, his breath short as he stared at the detective’s mobile.  
  
“Not now.”  
  
“He’s back.”  
  



End file.
